


Imladris Found

by baranduin



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Food, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Faramir instead of Boromir goes to Rivendell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written around 2005.

  
__  
Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.  
(FOTR, “The Council of Elrond”)

* * *

**Prologue**  
(In which Faramir takes his leave of Boromir and departs to search for Imladris)

“Brother, I have come to bid you farewell.”

The soft voice roused Boromir from his tossing, turning doze, and he opened his eyes and smiled as Faramir sat on the bedside chair. _Farewell, indeed_ , he thought. Booted and clad in mail under his tunic with his sword girt at his side, Faramir was ready to begin his journey. Eager, too, to take this burden on himself, Boromir thought with a pang of something he could not quite place. Perhaps it was guilt, or covetousness, or fear for his brother’s safety over the long leagues that surely lay between Minas Tirith and this legendary sanctuary in the North. Or a mixture of all three.

“What hour is it?” asked Boromir, easing up to lean against the bed’s headboard, careful of his injured leg. The curtains shuttering the windows of his room in the Houses of Healing were thick and kept out any hint of time of day. And considering the amount and variety of potions the Healer kept pouring down his throat, he would not have been surprised if he could not tell whether it was day or night even had the curtains been fully open. As it was, a candle always burned on his bedside table. Many were the times when he woke from a nightmare of drowning in the Anduin after being pierced by more than an orc arrow through his thigh. When he woke in a sweat after one of these dreams, he was more than a little glad of the candle’s steady flame though he told no one of such an unmanly thing.

Faramir said, “Almost eight. I must be away in a few minutes, but I would have your counsel one last time before I leave.”

Boromir stared hard at his brother’s face for a minute, noting the dark circles under his eyes that bespoke a restless night. “You look like you slept the night on the hard cave floor of Henneth Annun instead of your own bed.”

“That might have been more comfortable than my own bed was last night … which seemed filled with as many stones as lie at the bottom of the Forbidden Pool.”

Though Boromir enjoyed sparring verbally with Faramir, he knew there was no time for continuing such pleasantry, not with the journey ahead for Faramir and the tension he saw in his brother’s eyes. “You dreamed again last night?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Faramir rubbed his face briskly for a minute before sitting back and holding his hands out before him, palms up. He said, “And … it was the same as it has ever been since the first time it came to me … the pale light in the West, the voice …”

“And the words spoken were the same?”

Faramir nodded. “Yes, it is always the same … the sword, Isildur’s Bane, the halfling ...”

“Halfling … whatever that may be …”

“Whoever, do you not mean to say?” Faramir asked with a short laugh.

“Aye … whoever …” Boromir answered with his own laugh though he grew solemn again almost immediately. It was wrong that he was laid up here in bed like a weak thing unable to care for itself while his brother, younger and less-tested (though stout-hearted and sharp-witted, he had to admit), was forced on this journey of unknown leagues seeking a long-forgotten road to a place that few had heard of. Even their father knew only the barest rumor of fabled Imladris where Elrond Halfelven might dwell. Might. There was no certainty, only urgent need.

“Your horse is ready?” Boromir asked.

“Yes.”

“You are well-provisioned?”

“Yes, brother.” 

“Good, good. And your weapons, what have you for your protection … for hunting?”

Faramir moved quickly to sit at the side of the bed and gripped Boromir’s shoulder tightly. Though it looked to Boromir that Faramir tried to keep his expression grave, nevertheless Boromir caught the twitching of the corners of his mouth. “I will miss you, too,” Faramir said.

“See that you return … with the meaning of the riddle unraveled.” Boromir’s voice was gruff with unacknowledged emotion. For once, he could not scout ahead of Faramir, spying out the land for enemies, protecting him. Such a chance was not right, but then, nothing was right in these evil days. 

It was with raised eyebrows and a smile that Boromir was tempted to call a smirk that Faramir said, “I will, I promise. I will not fail your trust.” The smile faded a little and Boromir’s heart skipped a beat when Faramir spoke again. “I know that … that it would be better for you to go, but I will do my best.”

Oh, that was no way for Faramir to leave, so Boromir swallowed his own regret and said, looking straight into Faramir’s eyes while he spoke, “I do not know that. Would that I could go … to accompany you … but it was your dream, so it is your right …”

“And if you were well, do you think Father would allow us both to leave the City? I think not. I think …”

When Faramir did not continue, Boromir asked softly, “You think what?”

“Nothing. I know.”

“Know what, Faramir? Come, speak clearly. Leave off with this coyness.”

Faramir shrugged and said, “You would be the one riding out of the City this morning, not me.”

They stared at each other for a long, silent minute, Faramir’s gaze steady and calm, Boromir’s not quite as firm for he could not deny the truth of Faramir’s words. He could not—would not so dishonor himself and his brother—deny that, even though he had had the dream only once to Faramir’s several times, he would have taken the journey for himself as his first-born right had he not been fettered by this leg wound. 

It was Boromir who broke their eye contact first, slumping back against his pillows as if suddenly fatigued by their conversation. Not that it was a lie. He _was_ tired, so tired; sometimes he thought the stubborn infection that had plagued his wounded leg would leave him tired and weak for the rest of his life. 

He said, “It is no use discussing what might have come to pass. You are going, and I shall stay behind, nursing my leg and keeping Father in good humor.”

Faramir broke into loud laughter. “Well, then, you have the more onerous duty if you are to keep Father in good spirits. I wish you good fortune in that.” He leaned forward and squeezed Boromir’s shoulder before standing up. “As for me, I must go now.”

“I know. Have you taken your leave of Father yet?”

Scrunching up his face, his brow wrinkled and his mouth quirked up on one side, Faramir said, “Oh, yes … we parted after a few words of counsel on his part … well, more than a few …”

“Was it bad, my brother?”

“About as usual. I think he spoke with a little more vigor considering my journey and its possible consequences.”

“Tell me. Sit. You can spare a few more minutes. After all, if I am to keep Father in good humor, should you not arm me with all the particulars of why he might not be?”

With a shake of his head, Faramir gave in and sat down, though this time he did not make himself comfortable but instead perched on the chair’s edge. “What may I tell you that you would not guess? That he barely hid his displeasure that I am going and you are not? That he scarcely bid me good journey, if you call “get you gone from my sight” a fond farewell? That he told me …” Faramir’s voice trailed into silence as he stared at his boots and played with his sword hilt, squeezing it hard.

“What did he tell you?”

Faramir stayed silent for so long that Boromir thought he might have to shake the words from him, but finally Faramir looked up with an expression in his eyes that Boromir was hard put to name fully. There was shame, and that was not unusual, for Faramir took hard their father’s harsh judgment. There was bewilderment, and that hurt Boromir’s heart to see though it was a look he was familiar with, and it always grieved him to see. But Faramir was not completely defenseless from their father’s barbs. After all, he had had many years of practice in deflecting them, even in turning them back upon Denethor when occasion warranted or when he was goaded past biting his lip and remaining silent. So there was also humor in the expression, yes, humor and something else that looked like eagerness. And that strange light of eagerness was the part that Boromir did not understand.

At last Faramir spoke, and the eagerness Boromir saw in his eyes was reflected in his voice. “He told me to make sure I come back and not stay dreaming with the Elves in their hidden valley.” He snorted. “I am to make sure I don’t lose myself in the lore-master’s famous library and, as you would surely never do, forget to come out.”

Though he knew it would sting, Boromir could not resist throwing his head back and laughing long and loud until tears ran down his cheeks. Ah, how well Father knew his sons. When he was able to regain control of himself, after a few final bursts of laughter, he said, “Make sure you do, brother, make sure you do. Off with you now. May you find a safe road and a warm fire at journey’s end.”

Faramir stood up, grinning. “I thought you might have such a reaction. Well, I am off now unless you have aught else to say.” With a few steps, he was at the door and turned back round to face Boromir. “Shall I bring you back a scroll or book from Elrond’s library?”

Laughter took Boromir again. “Nay, I think not. Bring me a halfling.”

“Very well. I shall find Imladris, and I shall bring you a halfling when I return. Hopefully such creatures are biddable and not too fierce for my handling. Farewell.”

As Faramir shut the door, Boromir’s expression grew serious though a gentle smile still curved his mouth. He sighed and slid down in bed, pulling the blankets up to his neck, his mind’s eye following Faramir as his brother wound through the circles of the City to begin his desperate journey. For it was desperate, their lighthearted words notwithstanding.

“Safe journey, my brother,” Boromir murmured. “Come back to us soon and with aid, be it halfling or not.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
**Chapter 1**  
(In which Faramir finds Elrond’s library and halflings to be more than legendary)

Faramir did not find any halflings during his long journey, but he did find Imladris after months of wandering through empty lands, ever northward, sometimes moving quickly on the remains of ancient roads and sometimes forcing his way through dense thickets and foul-smelling bogs. His horse he lost at Tharbad, and the remainder of his provisions, which slowed him down even more for he had to hunt and forage for all his food from then on.

On a chilly October evening, with the mist rising from the Ford of Bruinen, he found Imladris in a hidden valley and was made welcome. There he also found Elrond—and his library. 

The library. Just the scent of it intoxicated Faramir with its heady mix of aged leather and freshly-made ink, thick candles of beeswax and well-oiled wooden cases. And now, wonder of all wonders, he had it all to himself, at least for the moment. Elrond and Mithrandir—what a blessed coincidence to find Mithrandir also at Imladris, if any meeting could be considered to occur by chance in these strange days—were busy attending on a traveler who had been found grievously injured at the Ford and brought to Imladris to be healed a mere day after he had arrived himself.

Though he planned to bury himself in reading as many of the ancient manuscripts and books as he could decipher and time permitted, for now Faramir was content to wander around the library, lightly stroking a gold-embossed spine here and there. He was caught enough by the spell of the place—pinching himself that he was actually there and not wandering in some wayward dream—that he did not hear the quiet footsteps approaching him.

“I thought I’d find you here, my boy,” a deep voice said with a chuckle.

Faramir whirled around, his defensive instincts not dulled by the safe haven of Elrond’s valley. Well, perhaps some of them were a little dulled, considering that he had not heard Mithrandir enter the room, he thought ruefully to himself.

“Hello,” he said and cocked an eyebrow at his old friend and mentor. “Boy? I have seen nearly forty summers, my friend … surely long enough not to be called a boy any longer.”

Mithrandir laughed, briefly, but neither chuckle nor outright laugh could mask the worry in his eyes. “Given my own vantage point, I suppose I could argue the question, but it would be churlish of me, would it not?”

“Indeed. Well, no matter what you call me, it is good to see you. How fares the injured one? You look troubled.”

Mithrandir’s eyes clouded over, and he nodded. “Not well, though we have not given up hope.” 

“May I know his name?”

“His name is Frodo Baggins.”

Faramir’s mouth curved up. “Is it? What sort of name is that? I have not heard its like before.”

Mithrandir shook his head. “No, I do not suppose you would have, except perhaps in legend.”

“Mithrandir, I may no longer be a boy, but I am not yet ancient enough to read your mind. I would have you speak a little more plainly.”

At that, Mithrandir roared with laughter, full-throated and warm. Seating himself in a comfortable chair near the library’s hearth, he motioned for Faramir to join him. “I will try. It is because of him … his companions, actually … that I have sought you out.”

Faramir settled in a well-cushioned chair across from Mithrandir. “Please continue. I am all ears.”

Mithrandir gave Faramir a fond smile before continuing. “As you have ever been through the years, my dear Faramir. You have been one of my most apt pupils, even when it was clear that your eagerness displeased your father. Though that is not what I would discuss with you today.”

“Then say on. I would be glad of a new lesson from you. Tell me of this Baggins and how I might be concerned with him … and his friends.”

“Very well.” Mithrandir’s smile faded though his lips still curved gently, almost hidden behind his tangled moustache and beard. “Frodo and his friends are hobbits from a very green and pleasant country called the Shire that lies south and west of here, a few weeks’ steady journey on foot.”

“Hobbits?” The word sounded strangely on Faramir’s tongue though not unpleasantly so. “What manner of folk are hobbits?”

“Ah.” And here Mithrandir’s smile came back in full force. “Hobbits are what they call themselves. They are also called halflings.” 

Well, Faramir’s eyes must have bulged out quite amusingly, at least based on the loudness of Mithrandir’s laughter, though that died down as quickly as it came and was replaced again by the worried expression he’d worn earlier. “I hope you may come to know these hobbits—all four of them—but for now, Frodo’s life still hangs by a thread. I must return to him in a moment. But, yes … it is most intriguing, is it not? Here you are, come to Imladris—though you will hear the hobbits call it Rivendell—arrived with the tale of a dream about, among other things, halflings. And here come four halflings hard on your heels. Most intriguing, indeed.”

“But not a complete mystery to you, I expect.” After a long minute, during which Mithrandir said no more but merely looked into the glowing coals of the hearth fire, Faramir continued. “Will you not tell me more? Were the half … er, hobbits … headed here?”

“Hm?” Mithrandir jerked as he pulled himself out of his reverie. “Headed here? Oh, yes … I sent them here myself and would have accompanied them had I not been detained elsewhere.”

“Detained … you? How?” 

“All in good time, my friend. Trust me – my captivity, Frodo’s journey and the reason for it … your dream and its accompanying riddle … all will be pondered and interpreted to your heart’s content. And you have done well to come here. Make no mistake about that, you have done very well … and just in time, I think. Yes, just in the nick of time.”

With that, Mithrandir stood up and stretched. “I must go back to Frodo now.”

“What?” Faramir said, his voice sharp with disappointment. “Is that all you are going to tell me?”

Leaning over, Mithrandir patted Faramir on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you must be content with just that little for now, though we will all take counsel together soon.” 

Faramir frowned up at his old friend and shook his head. “And here I thought you were going to take me into your confidence.”

“Ah. Confidence? You have it, you always have. But pity an old man who doesn’t want to repeat himself endlessly. I promise that you will hear the entire story told in full by those who know it best … you will probably hear more than even you have appetite for. But, come. I did seek you out to ask a favor of you, and I almost forgot it. Are you still willing to hear it?”

Faramir stood and trailed a little after Mithrandir, for the wizard had started moving away from the hearth though he stopped at the door and turned round. “Of course,” Faramir answered. “Need you ask?”

“Then come with me. My favor is really a very simple one. I want you to meet Frodo’s companions and keep them company while Elrond and I tend Frodo. There is little for them to do here, and I believe they are a little overwhelmed.”

“And I am not?”

“Yes, exactly. Hobbits and one man of the South adrift in all this Elvishness.” Mithrandir winked at Faramir. “You can cling together. I expect your own strangeness to each other will help dull that of the Elves.”

“Very well. They are dear to you, are they not?”

“Oh, yes. Very, very dear.”

“Then I shall be glad to keep them company ... and offer my protection if need be.” 

Mithrandir clasped Faramir’s shoulder and squeezed hard for a moment. “You’re a good b- ... sorry ... a good man.” They smiled at each other. “Come on. I think you’ll like them. Hobbits can be most entertaining companions ... that is, when they’re not bedeviling you with their foolishness or trying to steal your fireworks. Oh. One other thing. They call me Gandalf, not Mithrandir.”

“Of course,” said Faramir. “Gandalf in the North, Incánus in the South ... I remember that lesson though it might take me a while to remember to call you Gandalf. Lead on. Take me to these fearsome creatures. I would be glad of a little entertainment.” He looked quickly back at the library and its beckoning shelves and bowed. “Not that I was complaining.”

Faramir followed close behind Gandalf as they left the library and walked quickly through the winding halls of Elrond’s house. Though it had not seemed so terribly large when Faramir first saw it from the exterior, just one day had taught him that it would take more than a day or two to learn its ways. He liked that. 

Eventually, they passed through a door out to a small terrace overlooking the falls. Two children with curly hair were seated on a stone bench, their feet dangling above the paved floor. They both looked up, their faces breaking into broad smiles when they saw Gandalf. When one of them jumped off the bench and approached them, Faramir saw his mistake and realized what they were if not who they were. Though he hoped neither of the halflings noticed, he could not help staring at their feet—the one thing oversized about them, not to mention covered with thick curling hair of the same color as that on their heads. 

“Gandalf!” the halfing said. “How is Frodo? It’s been hours since we’ve heard anything. Not even Sam has been by to bring us any news, which has been most vexing.” 

“Hello, Merry,” Gandalf answered. “I’m sorry. There’s been no change. I wish I could bring you a happier report, but I have brought you a new companion.”

“Oh,” said Merry. For a moment, the expression on his face darkened with disappointment and, Faramir thought, fear. _Ah, the injured one is very dear to him._ He cast a quick look at the other halfing and saw the same look of fear. _To both of them._

The hobbit still sitting on the bench looked hard at Faramir and said, “But you have a beard.”

Faramir rubbed his cheek involuntarily and replied, “Well, yes, I do. Have had for quite a few years.”

“I thought Elves didn’t have beards.”

Mithrandir chuckled and said, “Well, you do have a bit of an Elvish air about you, Faramir.” Turning to the seated hobbit, he said, “Peregrin, this is Faramir, a man from Gondor, which lies many leagues to the south. He arrived just a day before you did. Faramir, the seated one is Peregrin Took.”

Peregrin stood up and bowed. “My friends mostly call me Pippin, if you like. And it wasn’t the Elvish air so much as the clothes. I’ve been around a number of men in the last few weeks, and not one of them has worn Elvish clothes, not even Strider.”

Faramir bowed back and said, after looking down at his long flowing robe with a laugh, “I am pleased to meet you, Pippin. I’m afraid my finery is borrowed, my own clothes being in poor condition after traveling for so many months with little chance to clean them.”

Mithrandir said, “And this is Merry ... Meriadoc Brandybuck. They are both cousins of Frodo’s though they all bear different surnames. And let me warn you right now. Be very wary of inquiring about their family lines, for hobbits have an insatiable appetite for discussing genealogy, possibly even more insatiable than for food. Which is saying a lot.”

Merry cocked an eye at Mithrandir. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you turn down a meal when you’ve come to visit the Shire.”

“Certainly not. It would be most unbecoming not to participate fully in the customs of the country.” Mithrandir winked at Merry. “And now,” he said to them all, “I must leave you for a while and get back to Frodo. I shall send Sam out to you with any news.”

The three companions, hobbits and man, smiled at each other before seating themselves on the stone benches at the edge of the terrace. It surprised Faramir a little that he did not feel cold considering how far north he was and how far advanced the year was, but the late afternoon light was golden and warm in the deep valley of Rivendell. 

They were all silent at first, sizing each other up a bit, until Faramir finally broke the silence. “Mith ... Gandalf said there were four of you come to Rivendell. Where is the fourth ... or perhaps he was injured as well?”

Merry answered, “No, he’s well. That is, as well as Sam can be when his master is lying so hurt.”

“Sam? That sounds a stout-hearted name.”

“Yes, well, stout he is, in more ways than one. And Sam’s short for Samwise, Samwise Gamgee. He hasn’t left Frodo’s side but for a few minutes to run errands and catch a little sleep.”

“Very devoted.”

“Yes,” put in Pippin. “And he’s taken it hard, so hard that he couldn’t protect Frodo when that Black Rider came at him with that knife ...”

“Pippin!” Merry said with a flash of his eyes and a quick hand around his wrist.

“Oh ... sorry,” Pippin said, clapping his hand over his mouth. “But he’s a friend, isn’t he?”

Merry said nothing, just looked back and forth between Pippin and Faramir. 

“Do not worry, Meriadoc,” Faramir said softly. “I do not ask you to tell me more than you think fitting, but know this. I have known Mithrandir ...” Faramir paused a moment when he saw the look of confusion in Merry’s eyes. “Ah ... our friend has many names. I have known him as Mithrandir most of my life, but he has told me you call him Gandalf.”

“All ... all your life?” Merry asked, the tenseness of his shoulders visibly relaxing.

Faramir smiled. “Yes, for as long as I can remember, Gandalf has come to my city to visit my father ... sometimes frequently but sometimes we don’t see him for many years until he pops up unannounced and unexpected.” Faramir leaned forward a bit as though confiding a special secret. “Sometimes I think he does it just to keep up mysterious appearances.” 

The three burst into laughter, and they all relaxed against the stone balustrade. The late afternoon air was soft and scented with pine and clean river-washed stone. After a few minutes, Faramir said, “I do not ask you to tell me more than you would, but I would like to know more of your friend’s injury. But no more than you think fitting to confide in me.”

Merry and Pippin looked at each other, and Pippin gestured to Merry to speak.

Merry said, “It happened almost three weeks ago. A knife wound to Frodo’s shoulder. It healed quickly ... that is, the wound closed up almost immediately. But Frodo ... he grew weaker and weaker ... paler and paler ... as time passed. Strider said ...”

“Strider? Is that another hobbit?” Faramir asked.

Pippin snorted and said, “No. Strider is a man as tall as you ... you remind me of him a bit for some reason though I think Strider’s quite a few years older than you are. We met him in Bree, a town not too far from the Shire, and he guided us to Rivendell. It was a good thing he was with us to chase off the ... well, to help us.”

Merry said, “Strider’s a Ranger and a friend of Gandalf’s, so we were very lucky indeed to meet up with him.”

“A Ranger? I had not heard there were soldiers in the North. Of what sort are they, and where does their allegiance lie?”

With a laugh, Merry shook his head. “I don’t really know, now that you ask, though I don’t think you’d call Strider a soldier exactly. Butterbur ... he’s the innkeeper at Bree ... he just said the Rangers were mysterious wanderers ... actually, he seemed a little frightened of Strider, and so were we at first, but then once we found out he was a friend of Gandalf’s, it was all right.”

“And this Strider, where is he now?”

“Oh, he’s around here some where, though I haven’t seen him since we arrived. I’m sure he’ll turn up. And you? Would you tell us where you’re from and why you’re here? Gandalf says you’re from ... what did he call it?”

“Gondor. I am from Gondor, far to the south. It took me three months to arrive here, though I spent much of my time wandering.”

Pippin asked, “Why?”

With a laugh, Faramir answered, “I didn’t know where it was and found no one who could tell me exactly where it lay.”

“But if you didn’t know where it was, why were you coming here?”

Faramir wanted to tell them, but just as Merry and Pippin clearly felt ill at ease in saying much about Frodo and his injury, so he felt unsure about saying too much about his errand. These hobbits seemed forthright and honest. Even more, they were friendly and curious, but Faramir wondered if curiosity would turn to skepticism and mistrust if he started babbling about mysterious dreams and riddles about halflings. 

Both the hobbits had bright eyes that spoke of sharp wits. As Faramir hesitated to speak further of the reasons for his journey, the expression in Merry’s eyes moved from curiosity to some sort of understanding, or so it looked to Faramir.

At last, Merry said softly, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to tell us, though of course we would be glad to know if you should change your mind.”

“Thank you, my friend ... if I may call you that,” Faramir said.

Merry’s face lit up with a smile that warmed Faramir’s heart. “Of course! But you know that means Pip and I will probably try to wheedle your secret out of you ... now that you’re our friend and all. Just ask Frodo about that, and he’ll tell you a few things.” 

It went straight to Faramir’s heart when Merry’s face fell, his smile wiped away as worry and grief for his injured friend washed over his pleasant features. He started to feel a little panicky when Pippin leaned his head disconsolately against Merry’s shoulder and so he searched in his mind for something reassuring to say that would not sound false.

When he spoke, his words came slowly but surely. “I have no doubt that Frodo has come to the very best place in Middle-earth to be cured of his injuries, grave as they are. Though we know little of Elrond Halfelven in Gondor, what we do know gives me hope for your friend since Elrond is renowned as a healer and lore-master. I know it is difficult, but be of good hope, my friends.”

Pippin sat up straight and smiled. “Thank you. You’re right, you know. If Frodo can be healed, it will be here.”

The three new friends drew closer together as the sun began its descent. They found much to talk about, and it might have made Gandalf laugh to hear what they said to each other in that quiet hour before a bell announced the evening meal. They spoke no more of the Shire or of Gondor or of injuries, but of how fair Rivendell was with its bright waters and steep pine-clad hillsides and safe walls.

* * *

Three mornings later found Faramir seated on the terrace alone, though he hoped that Merry and Pippin would join him as they had for the past few days. (Sam he had seen several times, but always as a fleeting figure passing on an errand and muttering to himself.)

He did not have to wait long.

“Faramir!” That was Pippin, who rushed onto the terrace a few steps ahead of Merry. Both of them wore bright, carefree smiles.

“Good morrow, my friends,” Faramir said. “You both look very merry this morning.”

Merry and Pippin seated themselves on either side of Faramir and tugged at his sleeves. Merry said, “And for good reason. Frodo ... he’s better, so much better. Elrond found a piece of knife that had broken off and lodged inside his shoulder ... he got it out. That he did. You were right, Faramir.”

Though he had yet to set eyes on Frodo, just seeing Merry and Pippin’s joy filled his own heart, and he hugged them both. And laughed along with them just for the pleasure it gave.

At length, they calmed down enough for Faramir to ask, “So when do I get to meet this Frodo of yours?”

“Tonight!” Pippin said. “Er, I think.”

“Tonight? So soon?”

Pippin shrugged his shoulders and said, “Elrond has given orders for a celebration banquet this evening. It seems terribly soon to me as well ... I mean, we’ve seen Frodo this morning and he’s sleeping soundly and all, but ...”

There seemed nothing to do but shrug his shoulders in turn, so that’s what Faramir did, saying, “But if Elrond says so ... very well. I am sure it will be a merry meeting this evening.” Though he spoke lightly, Faramir was filled with a quick desire to meet Frodo and see for his own eyes that the hobbit was truly recovered and well.


	3. Chapter 3

  
**Chapter 2**  
(In which Faramir starts to get an inkling about the biddable nature of hobbits, especially of the Baggins variety)

It was a fine and merry feast. Though Frodo was taken aback a little when he was shown to the high table and assisted up on a chair piled with cushions, he soon forgot his initial embarrassment as dish after delicious dish was brought out and set on the long tables. Gildor and his companions had spoken the truth when they had told the hobbits back above Woodhall that they would have better fare if ever they visited the Elves’ halls.

Everything seemed of a finer, richer aroma and taste, though Frodo ate little that he did not recognize: roasted fowl cut into pieces and resting in pools of the most delicate cream sauce; fine-crumbed white bread, still warm from the oven and served with the sweetest yellow butter Frodo had ever tasted; homely parsnips and turnips baked to a golden crispness outside and a melting savor inside; long oval platters of sweet-fleshed fish resting on fronds of dill. Even the wine seemed special, and with good reason, for it bubbled gently in its goblet when poured and fizzed delightfully on his tongue, tickling his nose.

He supposed it was not terribly polite, but Frodo paid little attention at first to his dinner companions after casting a quick glance left and right to situate himself. _A dwarf ... how peculiar! I wonder if he knows Bilbo_ , he thought for a moment before dismissing said dwarf from his mind as he began to concentrate on his meal. He would speak with him later when the sharpness of his hunger had been satisfied. As for the Elf seated at his left, surely he was one of Elrond’s household. Perhaps they would have occasion to speak after the meal.

The meal. Frodo could not remember the last time he’d had such a feast, if ever. Though it crossed his mind briefly that perhaps he should not indulge so freely after having just gotten up from his sick bed, he firmly put that foolish thought out of his mind. He felt wonderful and could barely believe that he had been injured; surely that wasn’t just the effects from the marvelously fizzy wine. _I wonder what it’s called_ , he mused as he smiled at the maid servant who refilled his goblet. 

Frodo thought that all the dishes had been served—well, not desserts, which made him smile in anticipation of what sugary and fruity wonders Rivendell might show him tonight—when a tall Elf approached him carrying a round plate of white porcelain with a silver domed cover placed over its center. It seemed a little odd to him that only one of these dishes was being brought out, but when the Elf set it down, raised the cover and bowed before backing away murmuring that “Lord Elrond bids you enjoy this dish,” Frodo understood from the earthy scent of mushrooms. Ah, it now seemed to him a very good thing that he’d had a month of hard travel and little food (though he could have done without the danger and pain). The clothes that had been laid out for him fitted him well, but there was no tightness about the waist of his breeches, which meant that he could indulge all he wanted without fear of bursting his buttons (as had been known to happen on occasion back in the Shire, not that he meant to confess that to any of his grand dinner companions).

As with all the dishes at this table, this new one was familiar yet a little bit strange to Frodo. At first look, the mushrooms lay hidden from him, encased in a sort of pie, but not any sort of pie that he’d eaten before. If it hadn’t been for the unmistakable scent and for a few mushrooms peeking out from the top of the pie, the pastry’s round lid gently askew on its creamy filling, Frodo might not have realized there were mushrooms involved at all. And the crust was like none that he had seen before, being puffy and light and flaky.

Taking care not to poke his elbow into his dinner plate, Frodo leaned across the table. Unfortunately, the elf who had brought the pie had set it at the far edge, just a little too far for him to reach.

“Bother,” he said and hoped he did not find himself slipping off his pillows unceremoniously for he was certainly not going to forego this new treat. Indeed, since it seemed to have been prepared for him and no other, it would have been most rude not to make the needed effort. Especially since it had been baked at Elrond’s order.

“May I help you?” his Elvish neighbor to the left asked.

Frodo started to smile his thanks, but his mouth gaped wide as he got his first clear look of his dinner partner. Well, that was no Elf, unless there was some strain of Elves who grew beards, and surely Bilbo would have told him about that unusual occurrence This was certainly a man, a young man from the look of him, with gray eyes that were grave and kind. Frodo, in his eagerness for dinner, must have just glanced at the long Elvish robe the man wore and assumed that he was one of Elrond’s household. 

The man leaned forward, spoon poised to serve up the mushroom dish when Frodo realized he was sitting with his mouth hanging open. He said, “Yes, thank you!” and watched as the man deposited a large serving on his plate. 

Frodo took a bite and just about slipped off his soft cushion, such was his delight in the subtle mixture of flavors supporting the earthiness of the mushrooms—butter, cream, a faint sweetness suggestive of minced onion. Hm, he thought he detected the bite of sharp cheese in the pastry as it crumbled into little shards and melted in his mouth. Though he had planned to just take one taste and then address himself to the grave young man, he found he could not stop with just one bite and continued until the entire helping was gone and his plate was looking distinctly empty.

“More?”

It turned out the young man was not so serious, for a merry smile played about the corners of his mouth.

“Yes, please. Thank you, again,” Frodo said and watched as another large serving was heaped on his plate. Though he would not have wanted to admit it, when his companion also served himself some of the pie, he was hard put not to redirect the serving onto his own plate. It was with some pride that the only outward hint of his greediness was a certain tightening of his lips as he watched the spoon move from serving dish to the young man’s plate and back again. 

“Your pardon for not asking your permission, but it looks so good,” the young man said, lifting a fork full of the dish to his mouth. Frodo grinned when the man closed his eyes to savor the bite. As a matter of fact, Frodo not only grinned, he took another bite himself to keep the man company.

“That’s all right,” Frodo said when they both had finished their portions. “I’m afraid mushrooms are a terrible passion of mine ... and of all my people.”

“So I have heard,” his companion said. He laughed when Frodo stared at him with blank incomprehension. “My name is Faramir, and I have had the pleasure of Merry and Pippin’s company the past few days while you have been abed.” His expression regained the gravity that was becoming quite delightful to Frodo’s eyes. “I am glad to meet you, Frodo, and see you looking so well. If appetite can be said to be an indicator of health, then I should say you are fully recovered.”

Though it was a little queer to have this tall stranger address him as though he knew him already, this familiarity was not completely unpleasant to Frodo, especially considering how kind Faramir’s gray eyes were. Not quite sure of what to say, Frodo laughed and said, “Yes, you can always tell when a hobbit has recovered from an illness.” Nodding at his empty plate—and the crumbs and drops of gravy scattered about it—he continued, “As you can see, I am feeling quite well. Far ... Faramir, is it?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Do you live in Rivendell?” How strange to find a man in Rivendell, dressed as the Elves did in long flowing robes of rich velvet. Somehow he didn’t think of Strider in quite the same way, though he knew that the Ranger called Rivendell his home.

“No,” Faramir answered. “I have come from Gondor, many weeks journey south of here.”

“Gondor,” Frodo murmured. He’d heard that name before, probably from Gandalf, and it sounded very exotic to him, and somehow dangerous. 

When Frodo said nothing more, just wrinkled his brow in concentration, Faramir said in a low voice, “And your wound, it is healing? I rejoiced to hear that the Morgul blade’s tip was removed.”

Faramir might as well have punched Frodo in the stomach for all of a sudden he could not draw breath, and, though the room was a little over warm from all the guests and lighted candles, he shivered. Who was this man, and how did he know about that? Surely Elrond would not have wanted it passed around as common knowledge, protected as Rivendell was. Had Merry and Pippin been so foolish as to confide Frodo’s business in an absolute stranger? He nodded with a jerk of his head, which transferred itself to the rest of his body, for he found himself slipping off the chair, the piled-up cushions scattering on the floor. Just as he slid, he saw Faramir’s face turning bright red and a look of distress in his eyes. Well, this Faramir of Gondor probably meant well, but he certainly needed to learn a thing or two about discretion, even in Rivendell where all were likely to be friends. Likely but not certainly.

Though Faramir knelt and helped gather the cushions, it was to the dwarf seated at Frodo’s right that the hobbit turned for conversation once he was seated securely again. And Frodo kept his attention trained on Gloin for the rest of the meal, except for the occasional glance to his right. He had to confess to himself that he was pleased with the young man’s demeanor, for every time Frodo sneaked a quick look, Faramir was sitting bolt upright and staring straight ahead, toying with his food but not eating, and certainly not engaging in conversation with anyone else.

_Hmph. That’s better._

* * *

Faramir thought his face would never cool from the sheer embarrassment at speaking too familiarly with Frodo and alarming him. What had he been thinking to blurt out his thoughts to someone he had never before seen in life, even though he had meant well? It was just that, after spending all that time with Merry and Pippin, Frodo had not seemed a stranger but a friend well-met after a long absence. Aye, that was the problem. For some reason Faramir had expected to plunge into close conversation immediately with Frodo, just as he had with Merry and Pippin. But there had been no Gandalf—odd how he’d come to think of Mithrandir as Gandalf after only a handful of days with the hobbits—to smooth the introduction with Frodo, and his own words had proved clumsy and ill-chosen. No wonder Frodo had turned from him for the rest of the meal, not to mention scurried away, with one quick look over his shoulder, once the feast ended and Elrond led his guests to the Hall of Fire. 

It was all very disappointing. Instead of being drawn further into the hobbit society that he’d encountered here—into its heart, for Frodo was its beating heart—he’d smashed into a locked door. He knew where the key was, and he knew that he could be trusted with it, but somehow he’d managed to get everything confused, and now all he could do was stand and stare at Frodo with a heated face and a heart beat that quickened every time the hobbit smiled.

“There you are. I’d wondered where you’d gone off to after supper. What are you doing lurking behind this pillar?”

Ah, surprised again by Gandalf. Faramir rested his forehead against the cool stone for a moment, willing the flush that had risen again on his cheeks to subside so that he could face his friend, who seemed to have acquired a most uncanny ability to sneak up on him though this time it was embarrassing. He straightened up and turned round to smile at Gandalf but said nothing, possibly because his tongue prevented him from saying anything sensible. After all, what could he say? “Oh, yes, Gandalf, I made an ass of myself sitting next to Frodo at supper, and now he probably thinks I’m an emissary from the Enemy who’s somehow snuck into Rivendell. But I think I need to keep him safe, even though he doesn’t need any protecting while he’s here and I don’t think he wants any safe keeping from me unless it’s to be protected _against_ me. Nevertheless, I think I’d better start practicing keeping my eyes on him as surely we won’t stay here very long. So, if you don’t mind, I think I shall just stand here all night and stare at him.”

The Enemy was after Frodo, though Faramir did not yet comprehend the reason for such an unlikely thing. The explanation was there, but it still hovered just out of reach for him, its key locked inside the dream-verse.

_Isildur’s Bane ... And the Halfling forth shall stand ..._

“Are you hiding from someone ... have Merry and Pippin driven you to it?”

“No,” Faramir said and laughed, running his hands through his hair before nodding over at Frodo. “I am afraid I made a fool of myself at the feast.”

“Tell me, though I doubt the situation is all that dire. I saw you and Frodo talking together, and you both looked quite friendly.” 

Faramir wondered where to begin, and to tell the truth, the incipient smile on Gandalf’s lips was not helping things along. Finally, he stumbled into speech, “I meant well, truly I did ... I’m afraid I was a little overeager and overstepped my bounds.”

Now Gandalf was grinning. “You? In what way? I find that difficult to believe.”

Oh, Faramir was standing yards and yards away from the large hearth fire, but it seemed to him that he might as well have been plunked down right in the middle of the flaming logs. That’s how hot his face felt when he finally managed to tell Gandalf of his conversational blunder with Frodo. “I have become so used to the frankness that has sprung up between me and Merry and Pippin that I thought it would naturally be so with Frodo. It was unwise of me, I know that now.”

“Faramir, you have always been gentle-spoken and I have admired that, but you have also always been able to get to the heart of the matter without planting several bushes and then beating about them for an interminable time. Speak plainly so I might know what you have said in case I need to remedy anything.”

If Faramir had felt that his face was beet red before, now he felt a poker straightening his spine and he spoke just as stiffly. “I told Frodo how happy I had been to hear that the point of the Morgul blade had been removed from his shoulder. It was indiscreet of me and I am sorry. I would have apologized then and there, but he did not seem to want to talk to me after that, and I did not know what to do.” Finally, Faramir’s explanation ran down and he stood with his shoulders straight, waiting for his chastisement just as he had many years ago in Minas Tirith when he’d spilled ink on an old manuscript Gandalf found interesting.

Oh, yes, it had been a long time since Gandalf had narrowed his eyes and jerked his chin at Faramir. “Well, now. And who told you anything about Morgul blades? Was it Merry ... or that Took?”

“No! That is, they said nothing about blades from Mordor, not by name. That is my guess, though the way you are looking at me makes me doubt it no longer. No ... they merely said something in passing about black riders and Frodo being stabbed, and I know of only one type of creature that description can belong to. Am I wrong?”

All the bristle went out of Gandalf’s beard and the sharpness from his eyes. “No, you are not wrong, though it is still a little premature to discuss it openly. Patience! Elrond will call council tomorrow morning, and there you will learn all you need to fill in the gaps between your guesses. Not to mention add in your own pieces of the puzzle.”

“My dream?”

“Yes. And the riddle.”

Faramir murmured, “Isildur’s bane ... the Halfling forth shall stand.”

Now Gandalf’s eyes were like coals banked down but still able to flame up if need be. “And do you think Frodo is the Halfling?”

Faramir didn’t want to think that. Suddenly he wished he’d never met Frodo, and that Frodo had never had to leave his quiet home, for it did not seem right. He said, in a voice so quiet that Gandalf had to lean forward to catch his words, “The Enemy is pursuing Frodo, and I believe I can guess why, though I will leave off my guessing in hope of the council’s certainty. But, yes. Frodo is the one.”

“That is your guess?”

“No. I know it.” Faramir touched his breast. “Here.”

The fire died from Gandalf’s eyes, and all that was left was sadness. “It is many years since I began watching over Frodo, though he does not know the full extent of it. I had hoped he never would.”

They both turned and watched Frodo across the hall. Though the hall was long and wide, every now and then they caught the hobbit’s laughter as it floated above the music of the harps and the voices of the Elvish singers. Frodo’s laughter hovered and soared, as if he had no cares in the world and his eyes had beheld nothing but green hills and swift rivers flowing beside a peaceful home. 

Gandalf’s voice was soft when he finally broke the silence between them.

“I will have a word with Frodo if need be. I would not have you two start out badly as you will have need of each other’s counsel and trust in the days to come. Do not worry. I think this can easily be fixed. But come now, I have someone for you to meet. Merry told me of your interest in Rangers of the North.”

* * *

“Who is that man?”

“Him? Oh,” said Frodo as he and Bilbo paused on their way out of the Hall of Fire. _He’s the man who bothered me at supper and then stared at me from across the Hall while we were speaking. And for some reason when he stares at me, it makes the hair on the back of my neck rise and my skin gets all prickly._ “His name is Faramir. He comes from Gondor. We sat next to each other at the feast.”

“Really? What have you learned from him?”

 _That I cannot be too cautious, even in Rivendell, even when someone’s eyes are kind and serious_. Frodo bit his tongue, so ready were those words to spring from his lips. Instead, he said, “Nothing much yet, I’m afraid. We talked only a little. I was terribly hungry.”

They watched Faramir from across the room. He stood next to Gandalf and spoke with Aragorn and Arwen, the expression on his face eager and open. It gave Frodo a little jolt when he saw Gandalf smile at Faramir and pat him on his shoulder, as though they were good friends. 

“Well, he certainly seems to be friendly with the Dunadan. My boy, you must learn to pay attention and ask questions when the chance arises,” Bilbo said, clucking his tongue. “I suppose it was a particularly fine feast? The Elves usually eat simply, but when they have a will, they can put our hobbit feasts to shame. Though of course one would grow tired of such rich fare if eaten too often, and I don’t go in for such things much any more. Come on. You shall have to introduce me to your Faramir later, and I shall have a good talk with him. I’ve several hundred questions about Gondor.”

Frodo turned his head aside quickly, hoping that Bilbo would not notice the quick flush that suffused his face. _Your Faramir_. Why, he’d barely exchanged two dozen words with the impertinent man!

“Yes, I shall be glad to introduce you to him,” Frodo murmured. “Tomorrow.”

As he and Bilbo left the hall, he turned around for one last look and found Faramir watching him. _Just like he has all night, even while Bilbo was chanting his poem about Eärendil._ But this time Faramir’s response when caught was different, for instead of averting his eyes, he nodded and smiled at Frodo. _What a sad smile._ Perhaps the hairs on the back of Frodo’s neck knew something his brain did not. Suddenly Frodo was rather eager for tomorrow to arrive.


	4. Chapter 4

  
**Chapter 3**  
(In which Faramir makes a solemn vow or two and Frodo has trouble keeping a straight face.)

Aragorn stood before the broken sword, dressed in his old travel-worn clothes. Though he knew Elladan and Elrohir waited for him outside, eager to be miles away from Rivendell by nightfall, still he lingered and gazed at Narsil’s shards. He well knew how each jagged section fit together and how the edges of the blade could still bite the unwary. After all, had he not kept them sharp in the years since he grew to manhood, stealing into this dimly-lit room with whetstone in hand whenever he returned to Elrond’s valley? And always before he left Rivendell, he made his way here to rest his eyes on Narsil’s plain crossguard and pommel, to trace the curve of the leather-wrapped grip with forefinger or thumb. Sometimes he picked it up and warmed the cool metal with the touch of his living flesh, though he had no need to do so. Its weight and form he knew whether he held it in his hand or gauged it in his heart as he lay under the stars in some lonely camp. This would be the last time that he bid farewell to it in its broken, jagged state.

A polite cough told him he was no longer alone. _You’re getting soft, not to have heard an intruder before that,_ he thought before turning round. 

Faramir leaned against a pillar, a hesitant smile on his face. “You are leaving?” he asked, coming forward to stand next to Narsil’s pedestal with Aragorn.

“Yes,” Aragorn said. “I am going with Elladan and Elrohir to help spy out the lands ... we must gather news of what passes before the Ringbearer can set out.”

Faramir nodded. “Of course.” He gestured at the broken sword, though the pass of his hand seemed more an obeisance than an inconsequential flick of the wrist. “This is Narsil, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Have you not seen it before?”

“No.” 

Aragorn smiled faintly. “Would you like to hold it?”

Faramir put out his hand but did not touch it.

“Do not worry, though be careful of its edges. Hold it.”

Aragorn watched Faramir’s face closely as the man curled his hand around the grip and picked up the sword. A mix of perplexity and delight played across Faramir’s face as he held it up, turning it back and forth to catch the candle light, and admired its form. “What are you thinking?” Aragorn finally asked.

“It is so heavy,” Faramir murmured. “Even this one piece is heavy in my hand. What a strength and heft it would have if it were remade ... _will_ have when it is reforged.” Finally, Faramir balanced the handle in both his hands and held it out to Aragorn. There was a look in Faramir’s eyes that Aragorn could not name, yet he felt it pierce his heart. Faramir said in a soft voice with his eyes shining, “Take it, my King. I would see it in your hand.”

Aragorn received the sword, wrapping his fingers around the grip, astonished for a moment into silence. Such trust, how had he won that? He did not know what to do with it, was not accustomed to being honored that way ... not by a man from Gondor. Not for many years, that is, and not by his rightful name. And to be held in honor by the son of Denethor no less! After a moment, he set Narsil back on its pedestal, smoothing the silk on which it rested before turning to Faramir.

“Are you sure?” Aragorn asks Faramir.

“Yes.”

“How? You did not seem quite so convinced at the Council,” Aragorn said with a quirk of his mouth and a raised eyebrow.

> _Faramir stood before Aragorn and said, “Perhaps all you say is true, and if so I would welcome your coming to my City ... yet you must know that not all would be so hospitable. It has been many, many lives of men in which the throne has sat empty. There are some who would not wish to see it filled.”_

“I am now. How can I not be ... the dream and the riddle were very clear, that is, they are clear to me now that I have found Imladris and seen both you and the sword. Though ...”

“What?” Something startled in Aragorn, and the one word he uttered came out almost harsh. So Faramir did still have some doubt. Of course he would. Let that be a lesson to Aragorn that he must not grow accustomed to the acknowledgement of his heritage before he could rightfully claim its fruits. If ever.

“Why did you not claim the Ring yourself at the Council?”

Aragorn turned round and stared at the painted wall depicting Isildur cutting the Ring from Sauron’s hand before he shook his head and answered. “You heard all that was revealed at the Council. How would it save Middle-earth if I were to become like him?”

“Him? Which one?”

Aragorn shrugged. “Either one. It matters not. I would not have the strength to turn aside from its call if I were to take it. Would you?”

Faramir took a long look at the painting before answering in a soft voice. “No, but ...”

“But what?”

“It does not seem right that one so small and untried in the wide world should bear the burden when there are so many who ...” Faramir’s voice trailed off before he finished, but Aragorn was able to complete his thought.

“... when there are so many strong men and elves who might take this thing themselves. But you were there, Faramir, during the Council. You heard all the sides and possibilities debated. Frodo offered of his own free will to take this thing. It troubles me, too, but it begins to seem to me that he will succeed if anyone can. Strength is not measured only by length of bone and thickness of muscle.”

Faramir bowed his head. “I know.” When he raised his head, a small smile curved his lips and made his expression look rueful to Aragorn. “I should know. After all, I am the one who had the dream and came all this way to seek its meaning. Still, I cannot help it that it does not seem right. Does not seem fair.”

Aragorn had no argument with Faramir’s sentiments, but he knew there was no answer to them either, at least none he could find words for. Especially not since they were sentiments that had ached in his own heart since that first night in Bree when the Black Riders had blown through the small town and Aragorn had watched Frodo bend but not break. But if the burden could not be lifted from Frodo, still there were things that could be done to help ease it, if only a little. “Will you do something for me while I am gone?”

“You have only to name it, my Lord.”

“Please ... I am just Aragorn for now ... and will always be, unless we find a way through this darkness.”

“Then tell me what you would have me do, Aragorn.”

“Be a friend to Frodo.”

Faramir laughed and flushed. Even in the dim light, Aragorn could see that Faramir’s cheeks reddened with some emotion and he was hard put not to laugh. “I will try ... though I do not think we began well. At the feast ...”

Aragorn smiled broadly. “I have heard all about that from Gandalf, and I doubt Frodo will hold it against you for long. But I am serious. There is much good you can do him while you are both here in Rivendell.”

“How?”

“Tell him of Gondor and what it defends, Faramir. Teach him. Show him the maps that are here. He will need to know these things ... and though he will be guided by those of us who accompany him, still he should learn as much as he can about the lands he will be crossing, especially Gondor and that which Gondor faces across Anduin.” Aragorn cracked a crooked smile. “If you can get him to forgive your indiscretion, I think you will find him good company. He has a sharp mind and a quick wit ... though I’ve not known him long, I have learned that much. They all have, all the halflings.”

“I will do my best.”

Aragorn grasped Faramir by the shoulder. “Thank you. You set my mind at ease. And ...”

“Yes?”

“There is one thing more I would ask of you. If I do not come back ...”

“Do not say that!”

“Sshh. Rivendell has been my home, as much as I can call any place my home, and it grieves me to even think I might never return. I was raised here from an early age. When you came here just now, you caught me at what I do each time I prepare to leave here ... or part of what I do, I should say.”

“What is the other part?”

“I say farewell to my Mother.”

“I did not know she was ...”

“Not in living form. Her grave. So I always return ... but if I do not come back this time ...” Aragorn stroked the smooth leather of Narsil’s grip. “ ... this is yours.”

“No! It is not right.”

“Yes, it is right. I have no heir. It is right if I do not return, for it must be reforged and wielded by someone willing and strong both of body and mind.”

“I have not that strength. Nor have I the inheritance.”

“Who knows if anyone does, even myself? Please. The kinship is there between us, though not in a direct line. Still, the blood of Numenor runs in your veins strong and true or I am no judge of men. Do I have your word that you will take it?”

Faramir looked stunned but finally nodded. “You will return to reforge it yourself, I know that ... I believe that, but if you wish it, I do promise.” Stooping quickly, Faramir pressed his lips to where crossguard met pommel.

“Good. I will tell Elrond and Gandalf before I leave. Farewell.”

* * *

“Hello.”

Frodo jerked. The night was so quiet and peaceful, and he had been so caught up in gazing at Elbereth’s stars, that he had not heard Faramir approach him. Apparently this Faramir walked with a silent step, as quietly as Aragorn, who could move almost as stealthily as a hobbit.

“I’m sorry. I startled you, didn’t I?”

Frodo smiled though he did not move from his perch on the balcony’s wide balustrade. Well, wide enough for a hobbit to curl up on with comfort (and without fear of toppling off) and lean against the broad pillar upholding the balcony’s roof. “Just a little.”

“I seem to be good at that, though I do not mean to.”

Frodo shook his head but said nothing, which seemed to disconcert Faramir for he remained silent while he leaned his elbows on the balustrade, pretending to be fascinated by the stars, which made Frodo bite his lip so that he did not burst into laughter. The man was intriguing, and Frodo could not quite put his finger on the why of it. Certainly, Faramir had startled and frightened Frodo at the feast when he had spoken so indiscreetly. And he was a little strange, and why wouldn’t he be considering where he came from, not to mention Frodo’s lack of experience with Big Folk. But he seemed kind, and Gandalf certainly trusted him. All in all, given what Faramir had said during the Council, perhaps what he’d said to Frodo during the feast had not been so terribly forward after all. Just a little ill-timed.

> _Faramir stood before the Council, his shoulders straight and his hands clasped behind his back._
> 
> _“I spend much time with my company keeping watch in Ithilien, a fair land between Gondor and Mordor. Though it is no longer so fair as it once was, thanks to Sauron’s servants despoiling it. It has been many years ... before I was born ... since any of my people have been able to live there in peace, though once it was known far and wide as the garden of Gondor. But, no more. And we Rangers of Ithilien are always aware of that which lies close to our hidden camps, mere hours march away—Minas Morgul.”_
> 
> _“Minas Ithil, as it once was called,” murmured Aragorn._
> 
> _“Yes,” Faramir answered. “It still glows with a sickly white light at night, yet none would call it the radiance of the moon. Not even Sauron’s most evil servants, I daresay, and they dwell there.”_
> 
> _When Faramir spoke of Sauron’s servants, he looked straight at Frodo and nodded._

“I still owe you an apology for my poor choice of words at the feast,” Faramir finally said.

“Do not worry,” Frodo said. “I cannot deny that you startled me there ...” Frodo laughed. “... well, more than startled me. But now that I have learned a little more about you, I realize my suspicion was wrong.”

“Suspicion?”

“Well, Gandalf has warned me time and again to be on the look-out for servants of the Enemy, that they come in many forms and places.”

When Faramir’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish flopping on the shore of the Water, Frodo had to laugh again. “Oh, dear. Perhaps I should be the one apologizing.”

If possible, Faramir’s carefully clipped “Certainly not, though I can assure you I have had no dealings with such creatures, except to hunt them down all my life ...” was even more amusing. However, Frodo was beginning to feel well and truly sorry for the man so managed to stifle his desire to whoop with glee. Yes, this man was having a very strange effect on him, and he rather liked it. 

Frodo said, “I know. Perhaps we should just begin again. After all we will both be here for quite some time, and I should like us to get on.”

“So would I,” Faramir said, the tone of his voice marginally less offended.

Frodo poked one hand out from beneath his cloak. “Friends?” He held his breath as Faramir looked at him. Finally, Faramir smiled and took Frodo’s hand in his. So warm! Frodo thought.

“Friends,” Faramir said and released Frodo’s hand.

“Good,” said Frodo. “Then that’s settled. I’m afraid that we hobbits tend to make light of the things that frighten us or move us deeply, and I expect I might do it again though I don’t mean anything by it.”

Faramir laughed. “Yes, I have noticed that.” When Frodo tilted his head and wrinkled his forehead, Faramir continued. “With Merry and Pippin, that is. They’re quite ... well ... unique in my experience.”

“Yes, well, don’t tell them that. Their heads are swelled enough as it is.”


	5. Chapter 5

  
**Chapter 4**  
(In which Faramir learns how to play a hobbity game and Frodo gets an eyeful—and some advice.) 

“Ah, now, this is what I call a proper fall afternoon,” Sam said as he knelt on the grass at the edge of the clearing and unpacked the hobbits’ picnic lunch—bread and cheese, cold roast chicken and apples, and a fine round lemon curd tart to satisfy everyone’s sweet tooth later on.

“Right you are, Sam my lad,” Bilbo said. “I was beginning to think you four had brought winter with you when you arrived, but it looks like we’ll get at least one more warm day before the cold sets in.” Bilbo leaned on Frodo’s arm as he sat down on the ground (covered just in time with a blanket by Sam), or rather levered himself down in stages, his joints cracking. When he was solidly seated on the blanket, with his back leaning against a birch tree’s slender white trunk, he smiled his thanks to Frodo and patted his hand.

“What do you think of this place?” Bilbo asked with a sidelong glance around.

Frodo thought he might almost be back in the Shire. A gently sloping green lawn was surrounded by tall silver birch trees and bounded on the north side by a row of alders leaning over a swiftly flowing stream. Though many of the birch leaves had already fallen to the ground in anticipation of winter’s bite, some still clung to their branches in bright gold. For the first time since he had woken up in Rivendell and wondered about the strangely carved beams on the ceiling, Frodo could not hear the roar of the waterfalls that fed the Bruinen. Tears stung his eyelids and he said, with a lump in his throat, “How ever did you find it? It’s almost like home.”

“I know ... thought you’d like it. I found it by happenstance, you know. Just by wandering off the beaten paths though I’ve stamped a track over the years ... Elrond had the grass planted for me. When I first found it, there was just bracken and a carpet of old leaves instead of good plain grass. Sam, you brought your fishing pole, didn’t you?”

“That I did, sir. Lord Elrond’s cook told me she’d teach me the ways of cooking that fish we had at the feast the other night. And I’ll be glad to learn, it was that good.”

“Well, then, I think you’ll have good luck in that stream over there. There’s been many a fine fish that I’ve caught on an afternoon such as this. Hopefully the sun will not have warmed up the water too much and made the fish sleepy. Speaking of sleepy, I want to have my lunch before I take a nap. Where are those two laggards?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll catch up once we start eating,” Frodo said. To prove his point, he started in on the roast chicken and, sure enough, it wasn’t but a minute or two before Merry and Pippin made their presence—and their appetites—known.

It was the first time the hobbits had been all together without the presence of others, and though he didn’t say anything about it, Frodo felt the familiar comfort of it slip over him like his favorite woolen blanket that warmed his bed back at Bag End. They all talked little, focusing on their simple lunch until each had eaten his fill. At last, with a satisfied belch, Bilbo lay back and unbuttoned his weskit before folding his hands across his belly.

But their afternoon was not to continue in a hobbits-only fashion. As they were licking their fingers and swigging down cool, clear water, Faramir appeared at the opposite side of the clearing.

Merry hailed him. “Hullo!”

Faramir joined the hobbits, reclining on the ground on one elbow, his long legs stretched out before them. “Thank you ... having a picnic, are you?”

“Yes, but you’ve gotten here in time to get your share,” Pippin said, pushing the plate with bread and cheese toward him.

“Well,” Faramir said with a smile at Frodo that for some reason the hobbit could feel at the base of his neck. “With Frodo’s permission.”

Frodo laughed and tossed Faramir an apple.

“C’mon, Pip, let’s play. You brought it, didn’t you?” Merry asked, jumping up and brushing stray crumbs of bread and cheese off his breeches. “Just don’t the rest of you start on that tart without us, or ...”

“All right!” Pippin joined Merry as they ran across the green grass under the bright, warm sun. Frodo smiled when he saw Pippin reach into the pocket of his weskit and pull out a small leather ball.

“Do you two want to play ... Frodo ... Sam?” Merry called. “Two against two?”

“Frodo certainly does not,” said Bilbo. “And even if he does, I’ll not allow it. He’s to rest and lie in the sun, and that’s all I have to say about that, Meriadoc.”

Sam stood up and stretched. “Nor me neither, if you don’t mind. I’ve some fish to catch for our supper.” Picking up his fishing pole, Sam turned to Frodo and said, “Will you be needing anything for a while, Mister Frodo?”

“No, Sam. You go on and catch our dinner, though I don’t suppose Lord Elrond’s cook will let us go hungry if the fish aren’t biting this afternoon.”

“P’raps not. Then, again, I’ve got a good feeling about this stream. Reminds me somehow of the Water, just that part by the plank bridge where it turns all narrow and brown and has the leaves all in it and the trees leaning over it. Do you remember that bit, Mr. Frodo?”

“I do.”

Bilbo cleared his throat, so suddenly that Frodo saw Faramir jump. “Well, you’d better get started, Samwise, else the fish will all have gone to sleep in the afternoon sun ... just as I plan to do after I speak with Faramir here for a bit. Off you go!”

Sam grumbled a little but, with a last sharp look at Frodo (from head to toe in one quick sweep that made Frodo smile), off he went as Bilbo had ordered.

After Frodo watched Sam settle down with his fishing pool across the field by the stream, he cast his eyes on Merry and Pippin, who were slapping the ball about with their legs and feet. It was with a smile that he saw Faramir watch them in seeming perplexity, his brow creased as he munched on the apple Frodo had tossed to him.

Finally, Faramir turned to Frodo and Bilbo. “What are they doing?”

“Oh, it’s a Shire game we like to play. It’s called rusheyball,” Frodo said.

“Rusheyball? Why’s it called that?” Faramir asked.

Frodo raised his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose because it was because ... er ... Bilbo?”

“It’s very simple. I’m surprised you don’t remember, Frodo. But to answer your question, young man,” Bilbo said to Faramir, his eyes glinting bright. “There is a village in the Shire, near the Brandywine River it is and its name is Rushey. And the game of rusheyball was invented there, though I cannot tell you by whom. Also, and really now, Frodo ... you were a young lad in Buckland so you ought to know better.” Bilbo stopped for a moment to give Frodo his most severe look, though it did nothing but melt Frodo’s heart. How much he’d missed Bilbo over the years. “As I was saying, before I remembered to give my young cousin here a sharp word and I beg your pardon for doing that in front of you, but there’s no time like the present as I always say.”

Frodo and Faramir exchanged a surreptitious look as Bilbo sat for a moment, rubbing his forehead. 

“Ah! Now I remember. Well, not only was the game of rusheyball invented in Rushey, but the original balls were made of leather or tough fabric stuffed with dried rushes. I don’t know that you’d find too many stuffed that way any more ... though I suppose you can probably find at least one or two at the Mathom House in Michel Delving. But these days, and for many years as far as I’ve been able to discover, the balls are stuffed with some sort of millet or other grain. Makes for a more even distribution and a better feel on the hand ... or perhaps I should say feet. It’s a matter of balance and weight, I believe, though it’s been more than a few years since I’ve played a match of rusheyball.”

Frodo watched Faramir’s face while Bilbo was delivering his impromptu speech. Well, he tried to be discreet about it and kept his head down and sort of stared up through his eyelashes at the man, but it was most difficult to keep a straight face watching Faramir’s reactions to both what Bilbo was saying and to Bilbo himself. How strange it must be for the man to be encountering Shirefolk for the first time in his life. Perhaps even stranger than it was for Frodo and the other hobbits to encounter Big Folk. 

Though Frodo had not encountered any Men before he came to Bree, now that he had met Aragorn and learned about his people, he thought that perhaps he had caught glimpses of the occasional Ranger in the woods near the borders of the Shire. But Bilbo had known Big People in his long life, and he had entertained Frodo with many stories about his encounters in the wide world with folk different than hobbits. So it seemed to Frodo that it might be queerer for Faramir to come to grips with his first encounters with halflings than it was for Frodo and his first experiences with Big Folk. And Frodo thought that Faramir, being a tall proud man from a great and ancient country, might not like to hear such an outlandish idea from Frodo ... at least not at first, though Frodo suspected Faramir would eventually see the wisdom of Frodo’s conclusion. That is, if Frodo was judging Faramir’s character correctly. 

But right now, all philosophical cogitations aside, Frodo was having a most difficult time keeping a solemn expression on his face. When Bilbo mentioned the Mathom House, Faramir’s brow knotted up in a most intriguing manner, and the man repeated “Mathom House” after Bilbo had said it, albeit silently. 

“Hoy! Faramir! Come play!” That was Pippin, waving across the field at Faramir.

“Should I?” Faramir asked, smiling lazily across the blanket at Frodo.

“Certainly, if you have a mind to, that is.”

“I believe I do.” 

Faramir jumped up and ran over to where Merry and Pippin were tossing the ball back and forth between them ... though not with their hands. They used only their lower legs and feet to move the ball between them and never let it touch the ground, though sometimes one of them leaped up high to smash the ball so hard with the side of his foot that the other had no chance to return it. And sometimes—this was Pippin in particular—one of them jumped up, spun round and crossed one leg in front of the other to make a fancy return.

_Hmm,_ Frodo mused as he watched Faramir run up to Merry and Pippin and apparently begin to be instructed in the finer points of the game. _I wonder if I should have told Faramir that Merry and Pippin are rusheyball twoses champions of the Four Farthings League for the third year in a row._ Frodo opened his mouth to warn Faramir, but at the last second he changed his mind. _Why should I? Great, silly man galumphing about and waving his arms, trying to look enormous. Hmph. He’ll go tripping over those tiny feet of his if he’s not careful. Which wouldn’t happen if he’d stayed here and talked with me ... me and Bilbo, that is._

A soft chuckle from Bilbo’s direction drew Frodo’s attention away from the three across the field. “What?” he asked and turned to see his elderly cousin settling back against the tree trunk and pulling his cloak about him.

“Nothing. Wake me up if anything interesting happens.”

“Such as?”

“Oh ... I don’t know. But something tells me those two rapscallions are not going to let your Faramir get away without a skirmish or two.”

_Your Faramir._ There that was again. Frodo knew he ought to be irritated since there was no sense in Bilbo saying it. But he wasn’t, though he wasn’t of the mind to examine why too closely, not when there was the prospect of examining Faramir himself closer to hand.

“And remind me to tell Faramir that I must talk to him for my book. Too bad I didn’t remember to bring it with me this afternoon.”

“I will,” Frodo said softly, smiling as Bilbo’s head nodded and his eyes closed.

When Frodo turned back to the playing field, he discovered that he (and Bilbo) had already missed something interesting as Faramir lay flat on his back on the grass. He watched as Merry and Pippin pulled him up, laughing as Faramir rubbed his backside. Though he strained to hear the animated discussion between the three of them, he could not understand any of their words, but given the amount of pointing at bare feet and booted feet, he gathered that their relative merits were the topic of conversation. Fortunately, he did not have to guess for very long as the three of them ran back to the blanket.

Faramir plopped down on the ground. “I do not see how it will help. I’m sure I have the greater advantage with my boots on. It is just that I need a little more practice in attacking the ball and keeping it in the air.” He turned to Frodo as he started tugging off his boots. “Frodo, is it true that I must keep the ball from touching the ground, else I lose a point?”

“Why, of course.”

“Very well, then.”

When Faramir had pulled off both his boots, Merry, Pippin and Frodo stared at the man’s virtually hairless feet, their mouths gaping wide.

Pippin said, “But they’re so ... so ...”

“What?” Faramir said, smiling and wiggling his toes with the evident pleasure of their no longer being encased in tight-fitting leather. At least so Frodo surmised as he stared at the man’s rather ridiculously slender feet. Definitely ridiculous. Most assuredly ridiculous. And possibly ticklish.

Merry and Pippin exchanged a look with eyebrows raised and lips pursed, and Frodo laughed out loud, taking a moment to gather his thoughts, before answering, “Naked ... no wonder you keep them all bound up in leather. Poor, delicate skinny things.”

“Bony, too,” said Pippin with a grimace.

“Wh ... b-b-b- ...” Faramir’s powers of communication deserted him as the three hobbits gathered around him and poked at his feet. Indeed, Frodo managed to notice that his mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, just like it had done the other night.

Finally, Merry sat back and said, rubbing his chin with his hand, “Well, I suppose all that hair on your face keeps you warm, but it would do a much better job if it were on your feet.”

Faramir shook his head and laughed. “I shall not contest the point, though I cannot say that I am envious of those great huge things at the end of your legs.” Standing up, he held out one foot and then the other, admiring each one in its turn. “I think they’re quite ... elegant ... comparatively speaking, that is.”

Pippin jumped up. “We’ll see how elegant they are after the game. Ready?”

“Yes ... though ...” Faramir squinted up at the bright sun. “I might as well take this off,” he said and unlaced his tunic top, pulling it off over his head.

As the three ran off to restart their play, Pippin shouted, “Merry ... I think some of that foot hair migrated to his chest, not his face ...” 

But Frodo didn’t care to hear any more of their bantering, not at that moment. _Oh, no,_ he thought. _I don’t need this. Not now._

Though he kept his head down, Frodo couldn’t keep from watching the young man as he battled Merry and Pippin. He couldn’t keep from eating him up with his eyes, every long lean muscle of leg and arm, and especially the way the sun glinted off the fine reddish gold hair on his chest. _How it shines! It looks so soft. I always thought the hair on a Man’s body would be coarse and thick, like a bear’s pelt. Not like this. Drat._

A quiet voice said behind him, “Careful now, Frodo my lad.”

Quick anger flared up in Frodo’s heart and he turned round to face Bilbo. “What do you mean?”

It was a good thing that Bilbo took his time in answering Frodo, for that gave him the time to master his angry outburst. But eventually Bilbo did answer in a soft voice, his eyes gentle with understanding. “I think you know what I mean. You can’t take your eyes off him, can you?”

Frodo held his breath for a long moment and then exhaled with a sigh. “No.”

“I’m sorry, my boy.”

“I’m not a boy ... would you call another hobbit a boy who’s done the things I’ve done and carried what I’ve carried?”

That struck home, but Frodo wasn’t sorry, or perhaps only a little bit. Bilbo said, “You’ll always be my boy, even if you beat the Old Took. Humor me in that?”

Frodo nodded.

Bilbo continued after a louder than usual shriek from Pippin distracted them for a moment for once again Faramir was lying flat out on the ground, though this time it appeared that both his opponents had tackled him. “I know you’ve suffered in the past, Frodo. Wish it could have been different for you. The Shire is a fine and precious place in this Middle-earth, but it is also a small-minded community in many ways ... it makes it difficult for those who are not of like-minded ways. It can be done, but one has to be very careful ... or not care about those whose life blood is gossip. I know.”

Frodo smiled. He and Bilbo had had this talk before, more than once, before Bilbo had disappeared from the Shire. Though he knew he sounded foolish even as he said the words, nevertheless he said them. “But perhaps the ways of Men are not so ... constricting as the ways in the Shire.”

“Do you really think so? In your heart of hearts?”

Frodo looked over to Faramir again and shivered, rubbing his shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe.” His voice trembled a little, not much, but enough for Bilbo to hear and lay a protective hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

“Perhaps, my boy. But be careful. You’ve greater cares now than who you would take to your bed. You need Faramir as a friend to you. So be careful, my dearest boy.”

Frodo and Bilbo sat quietly the rest of the afternoon, watching the rusheyball game play out. Earlier Frodo had found it terribly amusing to see Merry and Pippin gang up on the man, but now it gave him no pleasure though he knew Faramir enjoyed himself, throwing himself into the new experience with his whole heart and body. But for Frodo, the sky had gone just a little bit cloudy and he longed to be back in his little room, resting quietly in his bed.

As the game was winding down, Sam trotted back to Frodo and Bilbo and held up a string of fish. “Look what I’ve landed!”

But Frodo wasn’t hungry.


	6. Chapter 6

  
**Chapter 5**  
(In which Frodo and Faramir reach an understanding.)

Faramir stepped onto the balcony and smiled in pleased surprise. “At last!” he said and stretched his arms wide, raising his head toward the sun, eager to warm his face. It had stopped raining! He’d begun to think it never would after the past few days of dull continuous downpour, but it had, and the sun was even making a valiant attempt at showing her face, though in a rather pale and weakish fashion.

After a moment, he leaned his hip against the balcony’s balustrade and took a good look about him. Though it had stopped raining, everything about Rivendell this autumn day spoke of wetness, from the thrum and splash of the Bruinen and the waterfalls that fed it to the dripping from the house’s eaves and the little puddles that lay here and there on the terrace’s paved floor. Even the scent of the air was redolent of clean-washed stone and pine needles, and Faramir breathed deeply of it.

A flash of green caught his eye. While it was not exactly an unusual thing to see something green from this viewpoint—even the Bruinen had its very own unmistakable greenish cast to it— this was a very particular green that Faramir saw. To wit, the dark green of a hobbit’s cloak. And the hobbit was moving fast up the slope that led away from Elrond’s house.

Faramir had barely seen Frodo since the picnic and rusheyball lesson, had only caught a glimpse here and there. Each time, it seemed to him that Frodo’s eyes widened with the look of a small trapped animal and then he would find an excuse to be somewhere else. Any invitation to conversation, such as a lesson in Middle-earth geography or Gondorian history as Aragorn had suggested, had been met with virtually no response. That is, no response other than a quick “thank you, you’re very kind” from Frodo before the hobbit made his way from Faramir’s side as soon as was politely possible. 

Nevertheless, without considering the probability that Frodo would not welcome his company, Faramir was after him immediately, almost running to catch up. After a moment, he remembered himself and slowed down. 

_“Careful, now. You don’t want to spook him.”_

The path Faramir was climbing grew narrow and steep, and he had to keep his wits about him not to trip and fall on the slippery ground, especially with all the fallen leaves lying about so carelessly ready to trap the unwary with their smooth slickness. Though he could still hear the falls loud and clear, he could no longer see even a glimpse of them as he continued to climb, the sound of his own breathing now loud in his ears and the tickle of a small rivulet of sweat in the small of his back. It was probably fortunate that the way grew so steep and hemmed in with trees and shrubs on both sides since it slowed him down a bit and gave him a moment to think, that is to consider what he might say to Frodo when he found him. He thought perhaps “hello” might be a good start—as opposed to “Why have you been avoiding me? Do you not realize we are to be friends?”

He found Frodo only a minute later, but he might well have missed the signs that led him to the hobbit. It was good that Faramir had kept his head down while he had climbed, though he had been doing that to keep his eyes on the treacherously wet ground. A fall on such steep ground would be very unpleasant. But an unintended benefit of his concentration on the path before him was that he saw very clearly where Frodo turned aside off the main path onto a narrow winding track. 

The track was not very long for it angled back toward the River, though the Bruinen flowed many long feet below where the track ended in a long plunge. Frodo stood at the edge of the ravine, facing the river and the falls that cascaded in what seemed like a virtually continuous waterfall. 

Faramir had no thought but that Frodo might fall. “Careful, little one!” he said in a loud voice before he even considered his words, and once he did he bit his lip, for the endearment had slipped out unawares (though it made him smile, it seemed so apt).

The expression on Frodo’s face when he turned round to face Faramir fair froze the man from the roots of his hair down to his toes. He had not thought that Frodo’s beautiful face could carry a look of such cool dismissal. 

“I’m older than you, I expect,” Frodo said and turned back around. After a quick twitch at his cloak he paid no more attention to Faramir.

Suddenly Faramir was no longer standing near the edge of the ravine in the hidden valley of Imladris. And he was younger, so many years younger...

> _Faramir stands at the edge of the precipice and the water of the pool glitters up at him like many-faceted diamonds in the bright sun, but oh, it is so far to jump. He holds his breath and counts. When he reaches ten, he will jump._
> 
> _“Careful, little brother!”_
> 
> _And Faramir turns round and steps aside, just in time, for Boromir streaks past him and flings himself off the high bank with a shriek of unfettered joy. The splash he makes is a mighty one, yet the fountain of water does not reach Faramir, so great a jump was it._
> 
> _For a moment, Faramir’s heart quails and he holds his breath, for he sees no sign of his beloved brother in the churning water. One second ... two ... three ... five ... oh, it is an age that passes before Boromir surfaces with a roar of delight and shakes his head and calls out to Faramir. “Come on! The water is fine and cool in this heat. I have tested it out for you, little brother.”_
> 
> _It is only when he realizes Boromir is safe that Faramir remembers he was to have gone first. Boromir had said it would be so. Boromir had promised. Boromir had said that, as it was thirteen-year old Faramir’s first trip to this hidden pool, it was his right to jump first. But Boromir had only been teasing..._

Faramir said, his voice gruff and his words stiff with formality, “Sorry ... that was rude of me though I meant no disrespect to you, Frodo.”

After a long minute, Frodo turned round and unfroze the ice around Faramir’s heart, just a little bit. Though the haughtiness had disappeared and the hint of a smile curved the hobbit’s mouth, the expression on Frodo’s face was not exactly welcoming. And, Faramir thought with rising dismay, that wary look about Frodo’s eyes—a sort of tension about his eyes—was back.

Frodo said, “Don’t worry. I spoke a little hastily ... I’m afraid some of the Men at Bree called us that ... though, if I remember correctly, they were not quite so polite.”

Well, that was something at least, and Faramir stepped closer. When he kneeled next to Frodo, he fisted his hands at his side since for some reason they were trembling.

Frodo asked, “What is it?”

In a few words, Faramir told Frodo of his memory.

Frodo grinned crookedly at Faramir. “So you didn’t like that?”

“No, not then.”

“Does he still do it?”

Now Faramir remembered the day they retook Osgiliath and the White Tree floated high in the air once more as was its ancient right. Boromir had said to him, his face alight with joy and pride as they celebrated their victory with a goblet of foaming ale, “Remember today, little brother. Today ... life is good.” And he remembered how he parted from Boromir in Minas Tirith, all the love and affection and worry underlying the gruffness of Boromir’s words and voice. He didn’t mean to, but when he spoke again, his voice came sad and soft. “Yes, he still calls me that sometimes. I don’t mind any more, but I’ll remember not to call you the same since it displeases you.”

“Thank you.”

They started to move away and Faramir tripped as he stood up, one foot sliding off the edge of the muddy cliff and catching in a thick vine. Frodo grabbed him by the arm to steady him and pull him back. He said, with that crooked smile again, “I’ve got you, young man.”

Now it was Faramir’s turn to say, “Thank you.” He continued, “Stay and talk with me a little?”

Frodo drew back and hesitated, holding his breath and looking up at the sky for a minute. “All right, though I can stay only a little while,” he finally said though his words came slowly and, to Faramir’s ears, unwillingly. “It’s pleasant to be outside in the fresh air after all the rain of the past few days.”

Their look-out must have been a favorite location of the Rivendell folk for there was a white stone bench set back a little from the edge and off to the side. After taking a few handfuls of leaves and sweeping aside the water that had pooled on the bench’s seat, they sat down, both careful to have their cloaks bunched beneath them. 

They were silent for a few minutes, and the flowing water all about them thrummed loud in Faramir’s ears. _Oh, dear,_ Faramir thought. _What do I say to him?_

It was Frodo who broke the silence, and Faramir was grateful for that. “Tell me of your brother. His name is Boromir, have I remembered rightly?”

Faramir turned to Frodo and smiled at him. Though he longed to make a jest about the hobbit’s furry feet dangling a few inches from the ground, he decided not to press his luck. “Yes, Boromir is his name.” 

“And he is older than you?”

“Yes, five years older than me.”

“He is accustomed to looking after you, I take it?”

Faramir laughed and shook his head in fond remembrance. “Oh, yes. And a good job he’s made of it.” Faramir leaned toward Frodo. “He’s always been very protective ... I’m afraid I must have seen myself in that role when I called out to you just now.”

“Then I will forgive you, indeed. And was this place you remembered from your youth like this?”

After looking around for a minute—down at foaming Bruinen and across at sparkling waterfalls—he answered. “Yes, in some ways. Not quite.”

“Tell me.”

“This is much grander and all I could expect from hearing of a fabled place and finding it as beautiful as legend had sung of it. But ...”

Frodo shifted closer and looked up at Faramir. “Yes?”

How strange that Faramir had never noticed the clean, fresh scent of Frodo’s hair. Then again, the hobbit had never been so close to Faramir before, at least not voluntarily. 

“It’s not so homely,” Faramir answered and started when Frodo laughed up at him, his eyes merry. “You laugh? Why?”

“I always heard my cousin Bilbo speak of Rivendell as the Last Homely House.”

Now Faramir saw the humor and chuckled. “Ah.”

Frodo’s eyes grew grave. “But ...” He looked away again for a minute, out across the ravine before looking up at Faramir, his eyes dark blue, so dark and deep that Faramir held his breath. “But as nice as it is, it’s not home, is it?”

Faramir shook his head and whispered, “No, it’s not.” But he didn’t feel homesick now.

“You must miss your brother ... you spoke of him at the Council ... about the dream you had and how he had it too.”

How strange to Faramir that the sound of the falls and the Bruinen was no longer so loud. He fancied that he could almost hear Frodo’s breathing. “Yes, I do miss him. It would have been he who sought Imladris if he had not been wounded at Osgiliath just a few weeks before I set out.”

“But I thought you were the one who had the dream first.”

Faramir shrugged. He didn’t quite know how to explain it, how to give the proper flavor of the situation. “I did. But ... well, my brother is older than I am, and a stronger man I’ve never known. My father has great trust in him.”

Frodo said nothing in response, just looked up at Faramir with a question in his eyes. As the silence lengthened between them—so loud since the waterfalls had truly fallen silent for some reason—Faramir cast about for something to say, something ...

He said, “And you? You told us at the Council of your dream of Gandalf at Isengard and the eagle who rescued him. I could almost see it before my eyes the way you described it. Is that usual for you ... to dream of something and then find it come true?”

Frodo shivered, and Faramir drew closer to him though he dared not put a warming arm about the hobbit. Not with the wary look that still rose in Frodo’s eyes, warring with something else. Something that Faramir could not name. But whatever it was, it was making Frodo’s face flush. His cheeks were already rosy from his taxing climb up the steep slopes, not surprising given that he was still not long risen from his sick bed and certainly still not fully recovered, if he ever would be.

At last—that is, it seemed a long time before Frodo spoke, but the passage of time seemed to unaccountably have stretched out for Faramir—Frodo answered. “No. Well, yes.” He laughed at Faramir’s grimace of confusion. “That is, not before I left my home in September. But since then, I have had more than one strange dream.”

“And have they all come true?”

Frodo’s mouth worked wordlessly, and Faramir put his hand out and held the hobbit’s shoulder for a moment, just for a steadying moment. It worked and Frodo said, “I don’t know. Not yet, at least.”

“Tell me.”

“I ... I don’t know what it was. There was rain and everything was all gray, and then it changed and I saw a beautiful white beach and ...” 

Frodo drew closer, so close that Faramir could feel the hobbit’s breath warm on his face and see a pulse beating fast and strong at the base of his throat. “And what, Frodo?”

“Green, all green ... a land so green and beautiful ... like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Like nowhere I’ve ever been. Like ...”

“What?” 

Frodo shrugged. “How did you say it, when you described Rivendell? Like legend coming to life before your eyes.”

How warm Faramir had grown though assuredly he should be shivering from the cool air (not to mention the damp cloak on which he sat). But there was something so soft about Frodo’s eyes now that it warmed Faramir through. 

He needed to be closer, just a little closer to Frodo, though he was close enough now that he could smell Frodo’s skin and the faint sheen of sweat that glistened on his face. Faramir lowered his head just an inch or two, and his mouth hovered next to Frodo’s. He needed to say something. Now there was a roaring in his ears and a thrumming in his chest, but it was no waterfall that he was hearing, nothing so paltry and inconsequential as that. He spoke and it seemed that his voice was not his own. “What’s happening?”

The soft, gentle look in Frodo’s eyes—yearning, Faramir could have sworn—was gone in a flash and replaced by that damnable wariness that Faramir was growing to loathe heartily.

“Nothing,” said Frodo. He jumped off the bench and fairly ran down the track. Just before he turned onto the main path, he turned round and called back to Faramir, “I must get back to Bilbo.”

And then Frodo was gone, and the falls roared loud in Faramir’s ears, so loud that Faramir might as well have been flung across the valley next to one of them or been tumbled head over heels into the overflowing Bruinen as it raced out of Imladris.

_Nothing._

If it was nothing, then why was Faramir’s cock so hard that it hurt?


	7. Chapter 7

  
**Chapter 6**  
(In which Bilbo gives Faramir and Frodo a piece of his mind.)

Frodo hurried down the hallway to Bilbo’s room, alternately rubbing his shoulder and chafing his left hand. In the days since he had awoken to strange ceiling beams above him, the cold that had tormented his left side between Weathertop and Rivendell had returned. Or maybe it had never really left; perhaps he had just been so overjoyed at having that blasted blade removed and being safe and dry that he had not noticed it so much. Well, he was certainly noticing it at the moment though he supposed the brisk walk outside had not helped any, considering the cold drizzly day.

At any rate, he was warmer inside than outside, and expected to be warmer still as soon as he reached Bilbo’s room. He needed to talk with him, really talk with him and not just tiptoe around his problem as though it did not exist. He had done that until he met Faramir high above Rivendell and was nearly lost, had nearly done something that would surely have broken the fragile bond that had started to grow between them.

When he reached Bilbo’s room, he knocked once and then opened the door immediately. “Bilbo, I must talk with ...”

And he slid to a stop a foot or two over the threshold, his mouth gaping open when he saw Bilbo and his guest, both of them seated before the hearth with their feet near the fire. Faramir even had his boots off, and hobbit and man warmed the bare soles of their feet at the merry blaze. 

Bilbo looked over and said with a wave of his hand, “Well, shut the door. There’s a draft and I’ve just gotten this room warm enough. This place may have a sufficiency of good food and old scrolls and songs and poetry, but it’s none too warm in all its nooks and crannies. I’ve never been sure whether the Elves don’t feel the cold as we do, or whether they’re just better at hiding any discomfort. Well, Frodo?”

With a quick look over his shoulder back down the long hallway, Frodo said, “No. That’s fine. I shall come back later when you’re not busy.”

Frodo had not backed up more than a step before Bilbo said in a stern voice that Frodo had not heard since his tweens (and quite possibly since Farmer Maggot came calling about missing mushrooms), “Frodo Baggins, shut the door and come sit down. Now.”

Old behaviors die hard, and Frodo did as he was told with a quickness and meekness that brought a smile to Bilbo’s mouth. “That’s better,” he said as Frodo pulled up a low stool next to the fire and sat down. 

Frodo snuck a quick look at Faramir once he was settled. From the doorway he had only seen the back of Faramir’s head, but now that he had a good view of the man’s face he almost laughed in spite of his own distress. Frodo thought that if he could have stood next to Faramir in front of a mirror, the expressions on both their faces would have held the same mixture of worry, embarrassment, and discomfort. In a word, both of them longed to be anywhere but in that little room at the same time.

However, Bilbo was clearly quite pleased to have them both there. “Excellent timing, my dear Frodo. Faramir was beginning to tell me things that I’m sure you’ll be most interested to hear. Fortunately he had just started, so there won’t be much to repeat.”

Faramir gulped and smiled weakly at Bilbo and said, “Surely another time would be better.”

Bilbo compressed his lips to a straight line and gave Faramir the same stern look he’d just given Frodo. And somehow that made Frodo feel a little less lonely. “Certainly not. Frodo will be very interested to hear what you have to say. And I expect ...” Here he gave Frodo another one of his special sharp looks that made Frodo swallow with nervousness. “... I expect Frodo will have a few things to add about the situation.”

“Very well,” Faramir said and sat up straight in his chair, his bare feet planted flat on the floor. “Frodo, I was beginning to tell Bilbo a little about myself and ... the other day ...” Frodo leaned forward to catch Faramir’s words for it seemed that the longer the man spoke, the softer his voice grew though he held Frodo’s gaze with his own. And Frodo started to feel a little warmer as Faramir continued. “... the other day outside when we were talking and I asked...” Faramir swallowed hard. “Do you remember when I asked what was happening?”

Frodo nodded, struggling hard not to show the dismay he felt crawl up his spine at the memory of what he had almost done that day. “Yes.” 

“And you said nothing was happening and then ...”

“And then I ran away.”

Faramir smiled though only with a quick curve of his mouth that did not reach his eyes. Something naked in Faramir’s eyes pierced Frodo’s heart, but the man’s voice grew strong again. “Yes. You ran away and have been avoiding me ever since.”

Well, if Frodo had been cold before he came to Bilbo’s room and then a little warmer since then, now he was surprised that he did not break out in a sweat, so hot did his face suddenly feel. But he had to say something more than “yes” and “no.” “I’m sorry. That was cowardly of me. I’m afraid I didn’t know what else to say.”

Oh, that naked look in Faramir’s eyes was still present, but now Frodo read sadness there so clearly that he kicked himself inside for not having been brave enough to be honest about his desire, even though he knew Faramir would never return it. But he’d hurt this gentle man who was only trying to honor his word to Aragorn. 

Faramir said, “And I must beg your pardon as well. I was too bold when we last met and made you uncomfortable.”

As Frodo was trying to work out what that meant, he felt Bilbo moving about restlessly in his seat. Knowing that it was better to acknowledge it rather than wait for the inevitable explosion, Frodo turned to him. “What is it, Bilbo? Is this not what you wanted us to do ... to talk?”

“Great bullfrogs of Willowbottom! Will you two never get to the point?”

Both Frodo and Faramir drew themselves up straight. After exchanging a quick glance, Faramir said in a stiff formal voice, “We are doing just that, but it is a delicate thing.”

Bilbo snorted. “Delicate, my furry feet! Faramir, answer me this.”

But Bilbo did not speak quite yet, just held Faramir with his sternest hobbity look until Faramir flushed. Only then did he speak. “Do you desire Frodo?”

Frodo’s hearing had always been quite acute, even for a race known for their quick ears and sharp eyes. But somehow when he heard Bilbo ask that question and saw Faramir nod his head in the affirmative, he did not quite believe his own senses and squirmed on his little stool, gripping its rounded edge with shaking hands.

He did not have the time to analyze the situation, for Bilbo turned to him and asked, “Frodo, do you desire Faramir?”

Though he could not hear his own voice through the loud thrumming in his ears, Frodo knew he said, “Yes.” If Bilbo had told him later that he had sung it, he would have believed that as well.

Bilbo sat back in his chair with another snort. “At last. Well, now that we have established the fact of your mutual interest in each other, what are you going to do about it? After all, isn’t that what we are here for, though I did not call you to me this afternoon?”

While Bilbo was most correct in what he said, neither Frodo nor Faramir was quite ready to move on to the further debate and discussion that would be needed before they could decide what indeed they were to do.

Frodo spoke first, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his voice trembling with eagerness. “But I thought you just wanted to teach me about maps and history and ...”

“No! Well, I do, but ...” Faramir smiled fully for the first time that afternoon. “Not just that. And I thought you ran away because you discovered my interest and it disgusted you.”

“Heavens! What ever gave you that idea?”

“Have you ever seen a spooked coney?”

Frodo laughed, and now the only parts of him still the slightest bit cold were his shoulder and arm—and those only deep inside, bone deep. “I did leave a little quickly, didn’t I? But I was afraid of what I was about to do if I didn’t. I didn’t realize that you ...”

They stopped talking then and just stared at each other with eyes wide open at the possibility now suspended clear and sharp between them until Bilbo cleared his throat. He said softly and gently, “And what shall you two do now?”

Frodo turned to Bilbo again. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. May I not get used to the idea a little bit?”

“Yes, my dear Frodo. Why don’t you sit back and listen to Faramir for a little while and absorb what he has to say? Before you joined us, this pleasant young man had confessed his desire for you to me ... and had begun to tell me what life is like in Gondor for men who are of like desires. You did wish to know that, didn’t you?”

Frodo nodded. “Yes, I did ... that is, I do.”

Faramir looked at Frodo with a soft expression that gave Frodo that tingly feeling at the back of his neck. After a minute he stood up and walked to the little window that looked out on the ravine of Bruinen, rubbing his hand against the misted panes of glass. Though Frodo knew it was not likely that Faramir would say mutual desire between men was common in Gondor, for some reason he was not fearful. For the moment, just knowing that Faramir wanted him was enough. 

Finally Faramir turned round and smiled at Frodo. “Bilbo has told me that, while sometimes male joins with male and female with female in the Shire, it is not ordinary and it is not looked on kindly.”

Frodo nodded.

“It is the same in Gondor, though sometimes it does happen.”

Frodo asked, “And you ... have you?”

“A little. I was very young ... perhaps 15 summers old when I realized that I would never desire women. I used to visit my mother’s kin in the summer near the Sea at Dol Amroth.” Something sighed deep inside Frodo’s heart when Faramir shrugged and held out his hands. “There was one summer, a boy my age ... we grew very close.”

“Where is he now?”

“I know not ... it was but for a season and we parted. I never saw him again.”

“And since then?” Suddenly Frodo wanted so desperately for Faramir to have known love, to have been sated with it. And just as swiftly, a fierce jealousy blazed up in his heart. _Calm down, foolish Baggins, or he’ll see what a ninnyhammer you really are and take back everything he’s said._

Faramir shook his head. “No, there are places one can go in Minas Tirith, private places, but I have never wanted that. Though it does happen in the ranks of soldiers, perhaps more often than you might think.”

“Then why did you not?”

It startled Frodo when Faramir’s look grew stern. “They are under my command, Frodo. It would not be fitting for me to do such a thing.”

“Of course not,” Frodo murmured.

“And you? Have you ...”

With a sidelong glance at Bilbo, Frodo said, “A little ... tweenage fumblings, nothing ... well, nothing serious. And not for a long time. I have not missed it much.”

“No?”

Frodo shrugged. “A little.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it would not be right given everything that is happening.”

Faramir came back to his chair and sat, leaning forward so close to Frodo that they were almost touching. “But at least we can be friends now? Truly friends?”

“Oh, yes.” Frodo tried to sound cheerful, but it was hard going. It seemed that just knowing Faramir wanted him was not going to be enough, that in fact it was going to hurt not to be able to touch him. He swallowed a great lump in his throat and spoke again. “After all, you need to teach me all about Gondor and show me all the maps and everything you promised Aragorn you would do.”

Faramir nodded but did not speak. That naked look was back in his eyes, and Frodo saw the hurting would start with that expression. He completely expected to see it even when he closed his eyes. 

They sat quietly together as the rain pattered against the window until once again Bilbo broke the silence, this time with a loud “harrumph!”

Frodo said, “Yes, Bilbo? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Wanted! When did I ever say such a ridiculous thing?”

“At the picnic ... you told me to be careful.”

“Yes, I most certainly did, but there is such a thing as overdoing caution, and I think you two numbskulls are fast approaching that.”

“But you warned me not to ...”

“I told you to go carefully and mindfully, which you both are. I never said you should deny yourself ... nor you, young man.”

Faramir said, “Then your advice would be for us to join together?”

“My advice is that you should think hard about what you are doing and consider all courses.”

Frodo laughed, and Faramir turned to him in perplexity. “I do not see the humor in that.”

When Frodo managed to stop laughing, though he fair started up again when he saw the twinkle in Bilbo’s eye, he said, “Have you not ever heard that one should not go to Elves for advice for they will say both no and yes?”

Faramir started smiling with a slow warm curve of his mouth that made more than the back of Frodo’s neck tingle. “No, but it sounds apt. Though I had not heard Bilbo was part-Elf.”

“No,” Frodo said with a little catch in his throat. “But he has lived in Rivendell for seventeen years.”

“Ah ... more than long enough to acquire some of the more ... er ... philosophically impenetrable qualities of the Fair Folk.”

Through this interchange, Bilbo had said nothing but merely smiled at the two of them with his hands clasped across his belly, much as he had the other afternoon. Now he spoke again. “As I was saying, I merely cautioned you, Frodo. After all, you are well-grown and much more so than I was at your age. It would be impertinent of me to give you my advice, but if you like, I will tell you a story.” He raised his eyebrows and waited for them both to nod their encouragement.

“I have always lived alone in Bag End ever since my parents died. Frodo, you know that I share your lack of interest in the fairer sex. But did I ever tell you I had the chance to join my life with someone I cared for?” 

“No ... who was he?”

Bilbo sat quietly for a minute, his eyes wandering far away in some long-ago spring of the Shire. “A distant cousin, let us say. We cared for each other greatly.”

“And what happened?” Frodo sat forward eagerly.

When Bilbo looked at Frodo again, Frodo almost cried at the sadness in his eyes. “What usually happens when these sort of things occur. We parted after a few months of furtive meetings. He married, unhappily, and died when he was barely sixty. And I ... lived alone at Bag End, contented for the most part though lonely, that is until you took pity on me and relieved some of my solitude. Dear boy, don’t let that happen to you. Not when you have such a chance before you ... especially not when you have such a burden laid on you.”

Neither Frodo nor Faramir said anything or looked at each other. Frodo was barely able to breathe. When they both stayed silent, Bilbo spoke again. “I think I owe you an apology, my boy, for teasing you about Faramir.”

Frodo grinned. “Well, you did have me quite confused.”

“And me too, Frodo. Me too. I thought perhaps I’d just tease it out of you at first for I could see the two of you were drawn to each other, but I didn’t know Faramir’s heart or intentions. I may not be your father, but I have loved you like I was and always will.”

Tears filled Frodo’s eyes with love for Bilbo. “I know. I love you, too, Bilbo. Why else would I have taken your counsel so seriously?”

“Then will you take one more piece of advice?”

Frodo nodded. 

“It looks like the sun is coming out. Perhaps you and Faramir might want to go for another walk and get away from this old hobbit and his confusing advice. Anyway ...” He yawned though Frodo saw it was forced. “Anyway, it is past time for my nap.”

Frodo and Faramir stood. Faramir said, “Thank you, Bilbo. Frodo and I shall take things from here. Wish us luck?”

“Of course, my dear Faramir.” Bilbo cocked an eyebrow. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten that you have promised to tell me more of Gondor ... that is, of things I can write in my book. Off you go now.”

* * *

Frodo and Faramir walked down the quiet hallway, Frodo leading the way at a quick march.

Faramir said, “Do you want to stop and get your cloak?”

Frodo said, “No.”

“Oh. Do you not still wish to walk in the gardens with me?”

Frodo said nothing more and indeed barely let himself think else he would not do what he wanted. After taking a couple of left turns and going down one short staircase, he stopped at a recessed doorway. He opened it, walked inside and turned round.

“Don’t you think it’s too wet outside for a walk?” Frodo asked, his heart beating in his throat. 

Faramir said nothing, didn’t even nod, didn’t move, just stared at Frodo until the hobbit thought it quite amazing that the man hadn’t stared a hole right through his chest. Just when Frodo was about to say something else encouraging, Faramir stepped inside, kicked the door shut with one foot and dropped to his knees in front of Frodo.


	8. Chapter 8

  
**Chapter 7**  
(In which Frodo doesn’t mind missing a meal.)

It was over fast. Very fast.

Now they sprawled naked together on Frodo’s bed, their limbs entwined, the sheets and blankets shoved in a heap on the floor. Their faces were flushed from a commingling of satisfied desire and shyness. _What do we do now?_ Frodo wanted to make some tease about Faramir not being able to meet his eyes even though both of them had just brought each other such pleasure, quick as it had between first caress and melting completion. _Has it been even five minutes?_ But who was he to tease since he was in exactly the same bashful state. 

They had moved to the bed so quickly that Frodo barely remembered it. Had they even taken the necessary few steps, or had they both just imagined that they were _there_ and it was so? Once there, it was all a blur of unbuttoning and kissing and tugging on breeches that perversely became trapped between toes and kissing and bare skin being exposed for the first time to this nigh-on unbearable touching. Frodo had surfaced from the whirlpool of sensations and emotions just once as Faramir pressed him back against the mattress. He had time for one ordered thought. 

_Is the bed big enough for him?_

Yes. Just long enough for this oh-so glorious man to stretch out full-length. The bed also turned out to be just wide enough for one man and one hobbit, as long as they snuggled close together with chest pressed to chest. All the better to feel the steady beating of Faramir’s heart against his own.

That is, after the first flush of desire had been satisfied, clumsy and rushed as it had been.

“What are you thinking?” Faramir asked, his eyes meeting Frodo’s finally, a hesitant smile curving his mouth and lifting his eyes.

_He’s so beautiful! Sticklebacks! Why was I being so bashful about looking at him?_ “I don’t remember how we got to the bed,” Frodo answered. “Do you?”

“No.”

They kissed, noses bumping, mouths missing their mark a little bit. Drawing back, Faramir whispered, “We shall have to practice this, do you not think?”

Frodo answered, his mouth solemn but his eyes dancing, “Yes. Lots.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

* * *

There was a little pulse that beat at Frodo’s temple, just there at the edge, hidden normally with a curl of dark hair and so Faramir had never noticed it before. He saw it now as he leaned above Frodo and looked down at his lover, pulling back desire-dampened tangles from his face. _My lover!_

Frodo smiled but lay motionless with his eyes closed, the pulse at his temple still beating rapidly, matched by that on his throat. Though Faramir wanted to see the expression that might be in Frodo’s eyes were he to open them, for the moment he was more than satisfied by what he was already seeing—satiation radiating from every last part of him, all his muscles relaxed into a sort of languorous heap of arms and legs. Had Frodo ever lain so for anyone else? 

“I hope not.” Oh, dear, he’d said that out loud, almost before he felt the little twist of jealousy grip his belly.

Frodo opened his eyes and for a minute they looked directly at each other. It’s possible that they both started blushing at exactly the same moment, but to be honest Faramir was sure he started imitating a glistening boiled beet first. 

_What are you, a man full-grown with many hard-fought battles in your past or a lad who’s not yet seen his fifteenth summer and never been kissed?_

* * *

_Supper must be over by now,_ Frodo thought, and cared not in the slightest that he’d missed a meal. It had given him a pang of guilt in his belly that, with the door cracked open just a little, he’d said he wasn’t hungry when Sam had stopped by on his way to Elrond’s dining hall as he always did. For the moment, Frodo decided it hadn’t exactly been a lie as he really wasn’t hungry. He’d tell Sam tomorrow; surely Sam would be happy for him. Wouldn’t he?

But that was an hour or two ago, and tomorrow was very far away. The room was warm with a bright fire in the hearth and, even more, with the rather impressive body heat that Faramir gave off in his sleep. _I’ve never watched him sleep before._

Frodo watched Faramir as he dozed, and a neat and tidy sleeper he was, with no thrashing of limbs or loud snorts and whistles of a chronic snorer. Just watching him made Frodo’s desire grow again. But it was different this time, and Frodo wondered which was best—the urgent ache and need which drove out all thought and narrowed their world to _this_ touch and _that_ kiss and then the next one and the one after that; or the slow sweetness he was bathing in now that the urgency was not quite so sharp.

* * *

“Oh!” Frodo’s eyes flew open. Just a minute before and he’d been thinking about how beautifully Faramir slept. And then ... “I must have dozed off.”

“That’s all right. I did, too,” Faramir said, leaning up on his elbow above Frodo and stretching out his hand to caress the hobbit’s cheek. “Are you hungry?”

Frodo grinned. “I think we missed dinner.”

“I know. Was that Sam who knocked on the door a while back?”

“Mm hm.” _I wonder if I could live on the taste of his skin,_ Frodo thought, idly swiping his tongue against Faramir’s palm.

How odd. Before they couldn’t meet each other’s eyes, and now their gazes seemed glued together ...

Faramir broke their eye contact first though this time without even the hint of a flush. The smile on his mouth and in his eyes faded a little and Frodo wanted to cry out, what’s wrong but bit his tongue since, after all, it was not like he could read the man’s moods. Could he?

When Faramir’s fingers brushed Frodo’s injured shoulder, Frodo sighed in understanding. That’s what they all did—look solemn and tiptoe around him.

“Does it hurt much?”

“Sometimes. It’s been hard to keep it warm, and it does ache, though not so much any more.”

Faramir gathered the sheets and blankets, first drawing them up to Frodo’s chin and then slipping his hand beneath them, cupping the still-new scar with his warm palm. “Still cold?”

Frodo smiled. None of the others touched his shoulder that way, not that they should have. Still, they all treated him as though he were made of glass that would shatter at more than a light touch. “No. Your hand is so warm.”

“Then I shall keep it there as long as you like.”

They lay quietly together listening to the hiss and pop of the fire and the rain beating against the window. Now it seemed that looking at each other was the greatest delight in the world though the expression on Faramir’s face had gone all sad and solemn again.

“What’s wrong?” Frodo asked. “You look so sad.” Oh, there was something so naked in Faramir’s eyes; the man could not keep his emotions from his eyes and Frodo could read them all and crowed inside over it even as he worried that Faramir was unhappy about something.

“It’s not fair.”

“What?”

“You’ve already been injured and yet they’ve asked more of you. Too much. It is not right.”

Oh. That. All these hours and Frodo hadn’t once thought of it resting safely in his weskit pocket. No, not safe and not resting, never that. It merely submitted for the time being and still intruded itself into the happiest hours he’d known. He took a deep breath. “I wasn’t asked. I said I would go.”

Faramir smiled though it did not reach his eyes. “Though you do not know the way.”

“But you do, don’t you?”

Faramir’s lips moved soundlessly, but Frodo knew what he said.

* * *

Frodo woke three times in the night. 

The first time, the room was not in complete darkness as the fire still glowed softly. He’d woken often at this time of night in the quiet of Elrond’s big house and had always curled into a little ball, pulling the covers tight to his chin, trying to warm himself deep inside by looking into the hearth’s smoldering embers.

It was different tonight. There was an arm wrapped around him, and there seemed to be a little furnace at his back. Frodo was warm in a bone-deep way that he had not felt since he left the Shire. The hearth fire’s light and warmth were as nothing compared to that which enfolded him.

When he woke the second time, the arm was still around him—like a flexible lead weight. When he shifted within the curve of Faramir’s arm, wanting only to stretch a little, the arm tightened and Frodo smiled into the darkness. Apparently this sleeping entwined was something that had to be practiced as much as kissing did. 

The third time Frodo woke in the night, he came awake with a gasp and a soft voice whispering, “You were dreaming. You’re safe.”

Frodo turned round and burrowed against Faramir’s chest, rubbing his cheek against its soft fur, inhaling his scent. Faramir smelled different, other. Not like a hobbit. A stronger scent. Warmer, so warm. Cozier than his favorite woolen blanket.

“You’re not alone.”

“I know.”

 

End


End file.
